


Ragnarok

by SFCBruce



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Apocalypse, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Apocalypse, Prequel, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 149,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SFCBruce/pseuds/SFCBruce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Catastrophes. Ragnarok. The Twilight of the Gods. The global Armageddon that gave rise to the Nation of Panem. This is one way that these events may have occurred. You will recognize many ancestral canon names among the characters in this tale. Please read and enjoy - and reviews are always welcome - and I, of course, own nothing!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PAN-STARRS

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story in progress that I have also posted on FFN. I'm hoping that it gets a little better response here than it has at FFN thus far.

** CHAPTER 1 - PAN-STARRS **

** THE OUTER OORT CLOUD - TWO MILLION YEARS BEFORE PRESENT **

_The comet drifted silently in its long, lonely orbit about the tiny, intensely bright pinprick of light that lay close to six trillion miles away.  Here, in the very outermost reaches of the solar system, at the very limit of the gravitational attraction of an unremarkable yellow dwarf star that would someday be simply known as the Sun, the comet, and trillions of others like it, moved almost imperceptibly in an interstellar deep freeze._

_The comet had been born much closer to the star that it now circled.  Baptized by fire, it spent its tumultuous infancy being pummeled about by its siblings.  Slowly growing with every impact, for thousands of years it continued to accrete dust, then rock, and, as it slowly moved further away from its parent star, more exotic chemicals and compounds.  These growing pains went on for close to four hundred million years._

_If it had eyes and a brain, it would have noticed some of its siblings growing massively huge...so big, in fact, that their own gravity finally crushed them into spherical shapes as they continued to pull in and consume their smaller neighbors.  If it could feel emotion, it may have felt alarm, then fear, as the largest of these new monsters fell into a celestial dance as they orbited the parent star, causing gravitational tsunamis to surge through the solar system over and over again, until the very largest of these massive, gas-covered spheres actually began migrating inward, flinging smaller bodies in every direction with its brutal gravity._

_The comet was an early victim - seized by the monsters steely grip and hurled away, along with millions of its siblings.  Along the way it encountered a smaller body that had also been caught by the gaseous gravitational bully and tossed aside - but this one wasn't a sibling of the comet, but rather, a cousin - smaller, but made of much denser material.  Even as they sped away from the warmth of their parent star, they fell into their own gravitational dance, circling each other around a common center._

_For millions of years the pair - the larger comet and its smaller asteroid companion - sailed outward, away from the chaos that was taking place below them in what would later be named the Late Heavy Bombardment.  Finally, the tenuous grip of the stars gravity was finally able to slow their outward progress, and the pair settled into a leisurely orbit, having traveled so far from their parent that its light took almost a year to reach them._

_The light was an intensely bright pinprick, but offered no heat.  Together the pair drifted, two among trillions in a cosmic icebox that would someday be named after the human astronomer, Jan Oort, that first suggested that such a place could exist.  Taking millions of years to complete one circuit, the pair remained undisturbed for over four billion years.  The asteroid became a frozen lump of rock and metal, coated with a thin sheen of impossibly cold chemical compounds - but the comet continued to grow.  Even out here, in an interstellar no-mans land, the comet was able to attract elements, one atom at a time.  Hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen - for four billion years it grew.  Its home, the Oort Cloud, was a lonely place.  Aside from its companion, the comets nearest neighbors were almost eight hundred million miles away.  And so, for billions of years, it continued to add elements and compounds, undisturbed - until a celestial intruder paid a visit._

_The brown dwarf - too big to be a planet, but too small to be a star - had drifted in its orbit around the Galactic Core, along with trillions of other objects - stars, other brown dwarfs, and rogue planets.  Its journey finally caused it to brush against the Oort Cloud, but in the vastness of interstellar space, it only came close to one insignificant object._

_To be fair, it wasn't exactly a "close encounter."  The brown dwarf never came closer to the comet than the Earth does to the planet Venus.  Still, the comet was nudged by the gravity of the brown dwarf, and the internal heat generated by the brown dwarfs' continual attempts to ignite itself into a proper star was just enough to warm one side of the comet, causing some of its surface to flash into gas and sublimate into space._

_The comet wobbled in its orbit as the brown dwarf upset the delicate balance between comet and sun.  Then, like a spinning top that slows down, the comet wobbled once more, then tipped over and began to fall, ever so slowly, towards the only other object exerting any type of gravitational attraction on it - its parent star._

_It would take hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years for the comet and its companion to complete their journey - but they were both going back to the star that gave them birth - they were both going home._

**** ** 12:27 A.M. - WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1ST, 2070 **

Melody Temple rubbed her eyes, debating to herself on whether or not to have another cup of coffee.  Sighing in frustration, she tapped a set of new commands into the Image Differencing program, watching the computer screen in front of her accept the data.

New Years Eve.  She had made plans to attend the formal New Years celebration at the Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam Officer's Club with the young Naval officer that she had met recently, Lieutenant Charles Smith.  Charles ("Please don't call me Charlie, Chuck or Chas - it's Charles") was assigned to Base Operations, and was the polar opposite of what she had thought a dashing young naval officer would look like.  Short and squat, with an unruly shock of reddish-blonde hair, his appearance seemed to be better suited to one of the gravel-voiced Bosun's Mates than an "officer and a gentleman."

Melody herself was no stranger to the old adage of "appearances can be deceiving." Looking at her, no one would guess that she was an Astronomy graduate student.  Blessed with beauty from the day she was born, if one was to base their opinion on looks alone they may guess that she competed in beauty pageants (which she had done), or was possibly even an actress (never in a million years).  Tall and slender, with raven black hair, she turned heads wherever she went.  But astronomy was her passion, and had been since she was eight years old. 

And so, when she had been offered the opportunity to spend her winter break on the island of Maui working at the PAN-STARRS observatory, she jumped at the chance.  Working at the most sophisticated facility of its kind in the world, assisting in its never-ending search for potentially hazardous Near Earth Objects (or NEO's) such as asteroids and comets.  It all seemed very glamorous...until she realized that entering data for the computer to analyze for hours on end was neither exciting nor glamorous.

In fact, nothing much had really happened since she arrived in Maui.  Her original excitement at spending winter break on this beautiful Hawaiian island faded with the realization that she would be spending an enormous amount of time doing exactly what she was doing right now.  Her vision of soaking up the winter sun on a beautiful Maui beach had been replaced by squinting at a computer screen night after night.  The one bright spot had been the holiday mixer - where she met Charles.

Selected members of the PAN-STARRS staff traveled to Oahu to attend the Joint Base holiday mixer.  As PAN-STARRS was partially funded by the U.S. Defense Department, due to its military applications, these mixers were seen as a necessary evil.  That being said, Melody was quite impressed with the nature of the mixer at the Admirals residence.  Growing up in San Francisco and spending the bulk of her higher education at U.C. Berkeley, she had almost no contact with anyone in the military - until now.  And there was certainly no lack of handsome young officers paying attention to her.  But the one that intrigued her the most was the one young officer that was ignoring her - Charles Smith.

Lieutenant Smith certainly stood out from the crowd - literally because he stood out...apart from everyone else.  Everyone at the mixer seemed to gravitate into groups, with the military brass and PAN-STARRS officials making a great effort to have their groups mingle with one another as much as possible.  Melody certainly didn't have much problem in attracting attention from many of the young officers present; but, as usual, none of them could see past her looks.  But this short, squat, average looking officer was virtually ignoring her - and that was intriguing.

Melody, in the course of making small talk, found out some very interesting things about Lieutenant Charles Smith.  He had graduated from the Naval Academy second in his class.  He had been the first officer from his graduating class to be promoted to full Lieutenant.  And, during his first posting as a junior watch officer on board the frigate U.S.S. _Scott_ , he had been awarded the Navy Cross and Purple Heart for gallantry in action while the frigate was engaging Somali pirates off the Horn of Africa in 2066.

These revelations inspired Melody to learn more about this enigmatic man, so, at her first opportunity, she excused herself from her growing crowd of admirers and went in search of Lieutenant Smith.  After a quick visit to the ladies room (her original excuse for breaking away from the group), she made a quick survey of the Admiral's residence and found him standing on the back patio, drink in hand, looking up at the night sky.

Tentatively, she approached Lieutenant Smith.  He didn't seem to notice her as she shyly walked out onto the patio.

"Good evening," he said in a smooth, well modulated voice.

"Uhh....hello," Melody, surprised, managed to stammer out.

"Won't they get lonely?" He asked as he took a sip from his drink.

"Who?" Melody asked, confused.

Lieutenant Smith finally turned to her, looking at her for the first time.  He gave her a crooked grin as he answered her.

"Your admirers, of course," he says, nodding back towards the residence.

"Oh.  Uhh, well...they were nice and all, but..." Melody found herself blushing and wondered why this man was affecting her this way.

"I'm Charles," he says suddenly, offering his hand.  Melody took his hand in hers and noticed that he, too, was blushing slightly.

"Melody.  Nice to meet you, Charles," she says softly.

"My pleasure, Melody," Charles says.  "Have we ever spoken before?"

Melody frowned, puzzled.  "No, I don't believe so," she says.

"You work for PAN-STARRS?" he asks.

"Yes," Melody nods, "But only until the end of next month."

"I see," Charles says thoughtfully. "And what happens then?" 

"I go back to school," Melody says.  "Berkeley.  I'm in the Astronomy Graduate Program there."

At this news Melody saw Charles redden and he turned away slightly.  "My apologies," he stammered out.  "When you said you worked for PAN-STARRS I assumed you worked in the office - you know - clerical."

"You mean like a receptionist, or secretary?" Melody asked.  Rather than taking offense at his assumption, she was instead amused - and a little touched that he would so freely offer up his apology.

"Yes," Charles says.  "I assumed - well, I mean, because you - what I'm trying to say is -"

"Is that someone that looks like me couldn't possibly be an astronomer?" Melody finished for him gently.

"Pretty sexist of me, huh?" Charles asks quietly, not looking Melody in the eye.

"Very," Melody says with a smile.  _His honesty and bluntness is so refreshing!_ She says to herself.

"I'm sorry," he says in a rush.  "I didn't mean to offend -"

"No offense taken, Charles," Melody quickly says. "So what were you examining so intently?" 

Charles lets out a sigh of relief, then turns and points to a constellation hanging low in the night sky.

"Orion," he says. "It's always been my favorite."

"Mine, too," Melody says, standing next to him.  She points up to the constellation.  "Betelgeuse, Meissa, Bellatrix..."

Charles takes up the litany. "Alnitak, Alnilam, Mintaka..."

"The Great Nebula," Melody says softly.

"Saiph...and Rigel," Charles finishes.  For the next half hour or so they stand outside, pointing out various stars, and discussing their shared passion.  By the time they rejoined the others inside, they had made dinner plans for the following Friday.

Melody had found their budding relationship to be enormously satisfying.  Although she knew he was enormously attracted to her he was the consummate gentleman - a trait that she found refreshing, but was determined to change come New Years Eve.  Until that fateful phone call earlier in the day.  The girl that was supposed to monitor the Image Differencing system had eaten some bad sushi and was now paying the price for it.

Charles had, of course, been very understanding, but she could tell that he was disappointed.  As they had gotten to know each other better, he confessed to her that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever dated, and it was pretty apparent that he wanted to show her off a little bit at the Officer's Club that evening.  That simply fueled her determination to make up for this evening at the first opportunity.  She had already started planning a weekend getaway at the Hale Koa Hotel.  This coming weekend she would -

_BEEP-BEEP._

The sound of the alarm jolted her out of her reverie.  Sitting bolt upright, her heart pounding, she waited, holding her breath, until -

_BEEP-BEEP._

With trembling fingers she quickly tapped a few commands into the computer.  The Image Differencing system was digitally comparing thousands of high resolution images taken several days apart, looking for the telltale movement that would mark the discovery of a new celestial body.  The orbits of all known objects had already been programmed into the computer, so the alarm would only be triggered by something whose orbit was not known.

In other words, an unknown asteroid - or a new comet.

Melody waited impatiently for the images to load up on her screen.  Once they finished loading, she quickly consulted the discovery protocol procedures, then sent a message requesting confirmation, complete with celestial coordinates, to the Mauna Kea Observatory.  Once that was completed she sat back and regarded the images on her computer screen.

The split image showed a diffuse, fuzzy object.  She could see the distinct jump when she toggled back and forth between the two images.  Using a Blink Comparator, it was in this way that Clyde Tombaugh had discovered the first Kuiper Belt Object, the dwarf planet Pluto, almost 140 years earlier.  But this was no Kuiper Belt Object and most likely it wasn't an asteroid.  She double checked the inclination of the object relative to the Solar System's own ecliptic plane, then sat back, feeling the warm glow of discovery.

Melody Temple had just discovered a new comet - and from the look of things, it was a damn big one.

"Where did _you_ come from?" she whispered.

** 11:42 A.M. - WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1ST, 2070 **

Dr. Jack Hawthorne thoughtfully examined the data displayed on the computer screen for a few seconds, then double checked the message that had come in earlier from Mauna Kea Observatory.  He chuckled slightly, remembering the greeting he had received when he had arrived at the observatory that morning.

He had only intended to pop in for a few minutes, go over last nights data, then head home for a day of parades and football - but Melody Temples discovery had changed all that.  The girl was positively giddy over her comet.  Breathlessly, she showed him her data and also informed him that, per protocol, she had already requested confirmation from Mauna Kea.  It was obvious that the girl was excited - it's not every day that someone discovers a new comet, especially one that looks to be as spectacular as this one looks to be - but it was also obvious that the girl was running on fumes.  He sent her off to the small apartment she was sharing with some other astronomy grad students during her stay here with the promise that he would call her if anything new was discovered before she started her shift tonight.

Mauna Kea had, in fact, confirmed the discovery.  Jack quickly checked the data base for the International Astronomical Union - the IAU - to see if anyone else had reported the discovery, and found to his satisfaction that no one else had.  Quickly logging in to the IAU server, he uploaded the data both from PAN-STARRS and Mauna Kea, and finally gave the comet an official designation:

C/2070-01/MT-PAN-STARRS ("Melody's Comet")

_Looks like you're in for your fifteen minutes of fame, Melody,_ he says to himself as the computer confirms that the upload and send was successful.  He felt a brief pang of envy at her discovery - everything so far was pointing to Melody's Comet being the Great Comet of 2070, and would most likely surpass the display put on by Halley's Comet just nine years before.

A few minutes later a return message from the IAU confirmed the discovery.  The message was also sent to the Mauna Kea Observatory, with the request that both facilities begin analysis of the orbit of the new object.  Jack immediately sent a confirmation of receipt of the message, then picked up the phone to call his wife.  It didn't look like he would be home for a while, after all.

** 4:48 P.M. - WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1ST, 2070 **

Jack sat back in his chair and, grim faced, examined the orbital data that he had been working on.  He glanced at the nervous looking grad student sitting across from him.  Elise Orr chewed nervously at her thumbnail as Jack examined her data, but said nothing.

Jack reached over and punched the keypad on his Vid-Phone.  The screen came to life and filled with the image of a smiling young man.

"Hello, PAN-STARRS, and Happy New Year.  Mauna Kea here," the face on the screen says cheerily.

"Is Dr. Roshenko available?" Jack gruffly asks.  The young man on the screen immediately loses his smile and says, "One moment, Dr. Hawthorne, while I connect you."  The image on the screen goes dark and music begins to play briefly, but then a new image of a tired looking woman flashes up on the Vid-Phone.  Unsmiling, she runs her fingers absently through the short strawberry blonde curls on her head, then speaks.

"Jack.  I've been expecting your call."

"Hello, Elena.  Happy New Year." Jack flashes a brief, wan smile at the woman on the screen.

Elena Roshenko barks out a brief, bitter laugh.  "Happy New Year, indeed, Jack.  Is this our last one?"

"Secure your line," Jack orders and taps a control on the screen.  The image flickers, then steadies.  He sees Elena do the same.  A computer generated voice states "Line secured."

"You've reached the same conclusion that we have, I take it?" Jack asks.

Elena nods grimly.  "We have.  I'm sure we'll get confirmation for that from the IAU at any time now."

"And you've had someone there run an independent analysis?" Jack asks.

"If you mean, has someone else her checked my work - the answer, of course, is yes," Elena says sharply.  Jack nods thoughtfully.

"Same here," he says.  "And for the most part, the same answer.  When do you put perigee?"

Elena laughs again.  "Sorry, Jack.  I know there's nothing funny about this.  But _perigee_ \- that implies a miss!"

"Elena, come on," Jack says, exasperation in his voice.

"July 4th" Elena answers somberly.  Jack nods in agreement.  "Same here."

"When do we notify Jackson?" Elena asks.

"I want IAU confirmation first.  Plus, we need to take a closer look at this thing - and that will take the Tyson Orbital Observatory.  It'll take an IAU directive to shift Tyson on such short notice - its work is usually booked months in advance."

"Good idea," Elena says, nodding in agreement.  "I have a contact or two in the IAU - I think I can get them to spare some time off the cuff."  At that moment Jack heard his computer chime with the incoming message notification.  He see Elena's eyes dart to her left as her computer sends the same notification.

"IAU message," Jack says tersely.  "Hang on for a moment."  He quickly scans the message and returns to the Vid-Phone screen, his face a grim mask.  Elena glances up from her own computer a moment later.

"Confirmed," Jack reads.  "Perigee distance is calculated to be 9,000 kilometers or less."  

"Less than one Earth diameter," Elena whispers.  "Jack, there's still a chance -"

"Yeah," Jack says unconvincingly.  "Slim to none.  Who else there knows about this?" 

"Just myself and one of my grad students," Elena asks.  

"Same here," Jacks says, "And did you see the IAU admonishment?  'Not for Public Release?'  I'm gonna have to tell one other person, anyway."

"Your student that made the discovery?" Elena asks.  Jack nods. 

"I'll wait until she comes in tonight.  I'll be damned if I'm gonna tell her any way other than in person that she's the one to find the end of the world."

** 6:43 P.M. - WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1ST, 2070 **

Melody Temple numbly pulled the battered car out of the parking space and headed slowly down the mountain.  She had arrived at the observatory promptly at 6 P.M. and was prepared to admonish Dr. Hawthorne for not calling her as he had promised once her discovery was confirmed.  When she walked into the building, the first person she encountered was Elise Orr.

"Dr. Hawthorne wants to see you - right away," Elise says tightly.  _See looks positively grim!_   Melody says to herself.

"Feeling better, Elise?  Gotta watch out for that bad sushi!" Melody's attempt at a joke falls completely flat.  As Melody walks past her she see tears forming in Elise's eyes.  _It was just a little joke,_ Melody wanted to say, but then she was in Dr. Hawthorne's office.

Five minutes later, she understood completely why Elise was so upset.  For the next twenty minutes or so she poured over the data that Dr. Hawthorne was showing her.  Although she didn't run the figures herself, she had confidence that what she was being shown was correct.

She discovered the end of the world.

Dr. Hawthorne had suggested that she take the night off, and she was in no condition to argue.  As she sat in the car she had a sudden, ridiculous thought - PAN-STARRS was designed to find potentially hazardous celestial objects, and she found a doozy - so why bother staffing it at all?  Tonight or any other night for that matter?  In six months it wouldn't matter anymore, anyway.

Dr. Hawthorne had admonished her not to discuss this with anyone - at least until the knowledge became public.  He also told her that he would be talking to Thomas Jackson, the Presidential Science Advisor, later on in the evening to appraise him of the situation.

Mechanically, Melody drove down the mountain.  In spite of its battered appearance, the cars hydrogen engine purred smoothly.  She suddenly realized that she had nowhere to go - nowhere she _could_ go at a time like this.  She certainly couldn't talk to Charles about it, and didn't want to go back to the small apartment.  She found herself pulling into the parking lot of a small bar.

"Perfect," she muttered to herself as she slowly walked into the bar.  It was almost completely empty.  She walked up to the bar and fumbled at her purse.

"Can I help you, miss?" The voice of the bartender, a Hawaiian about her age, cut through her thoughts.

"Oh...uhh...double Jack Daniels on the rocks," she stammered out.  The bartender wordlessly poured her the drink.  After paying she walked to a small, empty table, sat down, and raised her glass to the sky.

"To Melody's Comet," she says bitterly, taking a large swallow of the potent bourbon.

** 7:16 P.M. - WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1ST, 2070 **

The bleary, sleep-creased face of Dr. Thomas Jackson, Presidential Science Advisor to President Janice York, stared in disbelief at Jack Hawthorne as he digested the information that he had just been given.

"This, of course, has been confirmed, Dr. Hawthorne?" Jackson snapped out.

"By five independent set of calculations, based on the orbital data received thus far," Jack replies, trying valiantly to control his temper.

"But this is, after all, a comet," Jackson says.  "Comets outgas and form all sorts of eruptive plumes - any one of which can affect the orbit of a body of this nature."

"Yes, sir, all that's true - but our observations have shown an incredibly close perigee.  At this juncture, a miss is the more unlikely of the two scenarios," Jack explained patiently.

"Dr. Hawthorne, I think any announcement now would be premature.  This object should be kept under observation for a while until a more thorough calculation of its orbit can be made.  Otherwise, we'll do nothing but incite a panic."

"Dr. Jackson - we can watch it for days, a week, even a month - and all that will tell us is where it will probably strike when it does.  The very unpredictability of comets is exactly why I'm calling you now.  This isn't Apophis, which, you recall, missed us in both 2029 and 2036.  Apophis is an asteroid with a very easily calculated orbit.  This is an Oort Cloud comet - a damn big one - that will be traveling at fifty-one kilometers per second as it approaches Earth.  And further observation has revealed an anomalous feature that we haven't quite been able to identify.  God knows, I hope - _I wish_ \- I'm wrong.  But from where I sit, there will be a major impact event on Planet Earth on July 4th of this year.  But for now, I simply suggest that you brief the President on what we know so far."

Jackson sighs heavily.  He rubs his chin thoughtfully for a moment.  Finally - "Alright.  Send me all your data.  The President has her 7 AM "coffee brief" tomorrow morning.  I'm always invited to attend, although more often than not, I usually have nothing to contribute.  I will appraise her of the discovery and of the potential - I say again, _potential_ risk of an impact.  When will you have more concrete data?"

Jack looks thoughtful for a moment.  "If we get time with Tyson, that, along with maintaining observation from here and Mauna Kea - forty-eight hours and we'll be able to tell you what hemisphere this thing will come down in."

Thomas Jackson nods.  "Dr. Hawthorne, I'll appreciate your continued - discretion - regarding this issue.  And I'll keep you appraised of my meeting with the President tomorrow.  Goodnight."  The connection is suddenly terminated.  Jack reaches over and taps the "End Call" button.  He then types in a few commands to send Thomas Jackson all the data collected thus far on Melody's Comet.

Tiredly, Jack stands up and gathers up his coat.  _My wife is not too happy about my being here today,_ he thinks.  _I'll make it up to her, tonight._

If he's right, humanity has about one hundred eighty three more nights to ever make anything right again.


	2. SHIVA

**CHAPTER 2 - SHIVA**

**THE WHITE HOUSE - 5:00 A.M., THURSDAY, JANUARY 2ND, 2070**

"Madam President?" A soft voice cut through the fog of sleep that enshrouded Janice York's brain.  _Not yet,_ she thought,  _just ten - no, five - five more minutes._

A soft glow filled the room as a small light was turned on. "Madam President?" The same voice called out again, a little louder and more insistent this time.

"Hmmphhff," Janice groped blindly for her husband, but Ed, as usual, was already up. Dimly, she becomes aware that the TV in their quarters is turned on - one of the news channels, from the faint sounds coming from it, probably Global News Network, Ed's favorite - but Ed was most likely in the gym, already pounding out miles on the treadmill. He much preferred running outdoors, but the blizzard that hit Washington on New Year's Day dumped over two feet of snow on the ground, and D.C. was still digging itself out.

The TV suddenly got louder, and Janice could hear the rattle of a cup on its saucer, followed by the aroma of Earl Grey tea wafting through the air. With a groan, she rolled over and reluctantly opened her eyes, to find her Deputy Chief of Staff, Amanda Dalton, looking down at her patiently, holding a NEWS-PADD in one hand.

"Good morning, Madam President," Amanda says with a smile.

Janice pushes her comforter down reluctantly, muttering "'Morning, Amanda" as she does so. Pushing herself to her feet, she stumbles to the bathroom and shuts the door. Already she could hear the bustle of activity outside her quarters as the White House staff gets ready for another day.

Finishing her business quickly, she washes her hands and steps back into the bedroom. Wordlessly, Amanda Dalton hands her the NEWS-PADD. Janice mutters her thanks along with, "Amanda, I'm awake. Go grab yourself some coffee or something. I'm okay...thanks again."

"Yes, Ma'am. See you at the coffee brief," Amanda says as she leaves the room. Janice turns her attention to the NEWS-PADD and, sipping her tea, begins to scroll through the various news items displayed on the small screen. A few items catch her interest - evacuations of major coastal cities due to rising sea levels, economic impacts from those evacuations, tension between Russia and China over border disputes in Mongolia, and - in spite of the snow on the ground outside her window - predictions that this year would once again break temperature records. She marked a few stories to read more thoroughly later on and scanned the TV news for anything that the NEWS-PADD may have missed.

At 37, Janice York is the youngest person every elected President of the United States. Always outspoken and active in politics, she had been elected to the Huntington, West Virginia, City Council while still in college, followed by her election to Congress at the age of 25, representing the State of West Virginia in the House of Representatives. A political rising star, Janice was elected Governor of West Virginia only four years later, and shocked everyone, herself included, when she defeated the incumbent President in 2068 to become the youngest President in United States history. Often described as a "cross between JFK and Harry Truman," after two years in office Janice still enjoyed a positive approval rating and was respected world wide.

In spite of the crushing workload that comes with holding political office, Janice and Ed still managed to find time to start a family. The twins, Veronica and Ed Jr., were 13 now, enrolled, to everyone's shock, in a public school in Washington. The kids, never knowing a time when their mother  _wasn't_  in public office, took everything in stride.

Janice glanced at the bedside clock. 5:30.  _The kids get another half hour_ , she says to herself as she hears a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," she calls out, taking another sip of her tea, while half-watching the news program on TV.

A young woman enters the room, carrying a garment bag. "Good morning, Madam President," she says cheerily, opening the closet and hanging the bag inside.

"Good morning, Cecilia," Janice answers with a smile. The perpetually cheerful girl never failed to bring a smile to her face.

"Too chilly today for a skirt, but I think you will like the suit I selected for you today," Cecilia says with a smile.

"I'm sure I will. You've yet to fail me - and thank you," Janice says gratefully.

"My pleasure, Ma'am," Cecilia says as she moves to the door. She opens it to find a large, perspiring man reaching for the handle from the other side.

"Oh! I'm sorry, Colonel York!" Cecilia quickly steps aside, allowing the man to enter the room.

"Pardon me, Cecilia," he says with a smile, slipping by her as Cecilia leaves the room quickly. Ed York shuts the door behind her as she leaves, then turns to his wife and smiles.

"Nice run?" Janice asks, returning his smile. Ed steps over to his wife and gives her a quick kiss before answering.

"As good as it gets on a treadmill," he says as he strips off his sweat-soaked clothes in preparation for a shower. He turns back to Janice with a leer on his face. "How about it, Madam President? Care to join me? It's a big shower, after all!"

Janice laughs. "Another time, studmuffin. I have to get the kids up in a few and, correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you have a staff meeting at the five sided puzzle palace at seven?"

"Dammit. The voice of reason strikes again!" Ed shuts the door to the bathroom and soon Janice could hear the shower running. Sighing, she goes to the closet and examines the suit that Cecilia selected for her today. Nodding in approval, she began laying out the rest of her clothing for the day.

Ed and Janice had been high school sweethearts. But where Janice had gone to the University of West Virginia, Ed had secured an appointment to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, New York. They were married the day he graduated from the Academy. In spite of the long separations necessitated by military service, Janice had never once used political influence to keep him posted close to home - and Ed would have been furious if she had. They had always had their separate careers, although now it was somewhat awkward with Ed's dual role as "First Husband." Still, Janice had to smile at the "coincidence" of Ed being posted to the Pentagon, assigned to the staff of the Army Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations, almost immediately after the election results certifying her election as President were posted.

Still, Ed was careful not to flaunt his unique relationship with the Commander in Chief. He was a well respected member of the military in his own right. And even though he had always thought of himself as a "field" officer rather than as a "staff" officer, he was enjoying his new assignment.

Slipping on a robe and slippers, she opened the door to their quarters to go wake up the kids. Nodding greetings to the various White House staff that she encountered, she quickly went to each child's room. To her surprise, both Veronica and Ed, Jr., were already awake and up. Reflexively telling them to hurry up, she walked back to her own bedroom to find Ed getting dressed.

"All yours," he gestures expansively towards the bathroom. Unlike Ed, who quite often takes forever to shower and get ready in the morning, Janice was all about economy of movement. Quickly showering, brushing her teeth, and applying light make up took far less time than Ed ever did.

After showering and quickly dressing, Janice then leaves the bedroom to join her family for breakfast. Ed was already in the dining room with the kids. Stepping into the hallway, she is immediately greeted by her Chief of Staff, Daniel Crane.

"Good morning, Madam President," he says, falling into step beside her, handing her the PADD he was carrying.

"'Morning, Dan," she replies, while skimming over the PADD screen. Just the usual - her morning schedule. "Anything I should know about?"

"Nothing Earth-shattering, Madam President," he replies. "All in all, a fairly light schedule this morning. After the coffee brief, you have a 9 A.M. with reps from GM, Ford, and AMC, along with the Secretary of Energy, to discuss the initiatives for hydrogen fueled vehicles; then at 10 you have reps from the African Union regarding the spike in piracy along Africa's East Coast, and an 11 A.M. with the Secretary of Defense on re-deployment strategies and force structure re-alignment."

"How about this afternoon?" Janice asks with a sigh.

Daniel Crane glances at his PADD and scrolls down. "We'll hit that at the end of the coffee brief."

"That bad, huh? Did you happen to schedule in any potty breaks?" Janice asks sarcastically.

The Chief of Staff lowers his voice and says softly, "You knew this job was a bitch going in, Jan."

Janice nods and sighs. "Oh yeah, and it's not even a full year since inauguration. Care to join us for breakfast?"

"No, thanks. I still have to finish setting up the coffee brief. See you at seven, Madam President."

Janice nods, turns, and enters the dining room for breakfast with her family before starting yet another day in the life of the President of the United States.

**THE ROOSEVELT ROOM - 7:00 A.M., THURSDAY, JANUARY 2ND, 2070**

Precisely at 7 A.M., Janice York strides into the Roosevelt Room, located in the West Wing of the White House, for the daily "coffee brief." This was an informal briefing where topics not necessarily on the daily schedule could be addressed, and, if necessary, adjustments to the daily schedule could be made.

"Good morning, everyone," she says cheerily to the assembled staff, taking a seat at the head of the conference table.

A muted chorus of "Good morning, Madam President," greets her in return. Rather than a formal meeting, the coffee brief was opened to any member of the staff that felt the need to present something to the President.

Janice surveys the room quickly. In addition to herself, the Chief and Deputy Chief of Staff, there was only one additional face at the table - her Science Advisor, Dr. Thomas Jackson.  _Oh well,_ she thought,  _And here I thought I was gonna get a free hour the day after New Year's._  Pushing the thought aside, she glued a smile to her face and turned to her Science Advisor. It was then that she noticed that, not only was he  _not_  smiling, he looked positively grim

"So, what do you have for me, Tom?" Janice asked.

"Potentially, the end of the world, Madam President," Thomas Jackson replies solemnly.

"I beg your pardon?" Janice says, a hint of annoyance in her voice. She's not in a joking mood.

Jackson takes a deep breath before continuing. "Madam President, last night I came into receipt of some very...disturbing...information from the PAN-STARRS observatory on Maui. This information has been confirmed independently by the Mauna Kea observatory and the International Astronomical Union." He pauses to tap a few commands on the PADD that sat on the table in front of him. "May I get the lights dimmed, please?"

At a nod from Janice York, Amanda Dalton quickly dimmed the lights and activated the view screen on the far wall.

Jackson tapped his PADD screen and suddenly the large view screen comes to life, displaying two pictures of star fields side by side. In each one a red arrow points to a diffuse blob of light.

"This discovery - Comet C/2070-01/MT-PAN-STARRS - was made early yesterday morning and confirmed - first by PAN-STARRS staff, then by Mauna Kea, and finally by the IAU. It shows a new comet, somewhat larger than Comet Halley, a little over five astronomical units, or a little over eight hundred million kilometers, from Earth, at an inclination of about 75 degrees above the plane of the ecliptic. The orbital calculations show that the perigee for this comet will be between six and ten thousand kilometers. As perigee is measured from the Earth's core rather than the surface, this indicates that the best we can hope for at this time is a miss on the order of about three thousand kilometers. However, the astronomers think a strike is much more likely." Thomas pauses for a moment to let President Janice York digest the information that he has just given her.

Janice forced her face to remain impassive during Jackson's recital.  _My God, the man's serious!_  Glancing down at the PADD in front of her, Janice keyed in a couple of quick notes before looking up at the grim visage of her Science Advisor.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Tom, but this comet sounds quite far away still. Somewhat farther from us than we are from the planet Jupiter."

"That's correct, Ma'am," Jackson replied. "Early calculations predict it will reach perigee on July 4th of this year."

Janice tapped in a few commands on her PADD, then looked back up. "Then that means it must be traveling over 30 miles a second!"

Jackson nodded. "That would be its average velocity given the distance that it must travel. As it gets closer to the Sun - and us - it's velocity will be significantly greater. Right now it's actually significantly less."

"And what are the actual odds of this thing hitting us?" Janice asks.

"Madam President, I'm not an astronomer by training, and the astronomers that have been keeping this comet under observation haven't issued odds. But, given the preliminary orbital calculations, I would say the odds right now are fifty-fifty. Either it hits us or it doesn't. However, in checking with the IAU this morning, they've assigned a Torino rating of seven to this object."

Janice York frowned in puzzlement. "Torino rating?"

"The Torino scale was developed late in the 20th century to assign a risk factor for Near Earth Objects, or NEO's. A rating of zero indicates that there is no chance of an impact causing significant damage. A rating of ten would rank an object to the equivalent of the Chicxulub impact event over 65 million years ago. Since the Torino scale has been in use, no object - until now - has ever been rated above a four."

"And if this object strikes?" Janice asks quietly.

"It would be a ten, Madam President," Jackson replies grimly.

Nodding, Janice turns to Daniel Crane. "Dan, I want to talk to the astronomers involved in the discovery. Here, in person." She turns back to Thomas Jackson. "Tom, what were their names?"

Jackson keys his PADD. "Dr. Jack Hawthorne at PAN-STARRS and Dr. Elena Roshenko at Mauna Kea. Hawthorne mentioned that the actual discovery was made by a grad student - Melody somebody."

"Got those names, Dan?" Janice asks.

"Yes, Madam President. I'll contact Joint Base Pearl and arrange for immediate transport via hoverplane." Crane says, nodding to Amanda Dalton, who was busy keying in info on her own PADD.

"Good. I'll also need a meeting of the full cabinet, to include the Vice President, Senate and House Majority and Minority Leaders, Joint Chiefs, CIA, FBI, NSA, FEMA, and you, Tom. I want this to happen when we get our astronomers here, so time it accordingly."

"Yes, Madam President. Do you want me to clear today's schedule as well?"

"No. It'll take time to get everyone here. Until we meet, there's really nothing we can do. So, business as usual." Janice says lightly.

"What about the press?" Crane asks. "Word of this discovery is bound to leak out soon."

"Confirm the discovery - nothing more. Tom, can we count on everyone involved with this outside of this room to be discreet?"

"I'm sure of it, Madam President - at least for the time being." Jackson replies.

"Okay, then," Janice York says, standing up. "We all have work to do. Tom, stay on top of the IAU. We need as much data as we can get. Dan - I know you've got a handle on pulling everyone together - keep me updated as to the earliest we can hold that meeting. Amanda - you have everything on my 9 A.M. regarding the hydrogen engines initiatives?"

There was a chorus of "Yes, Madam President," from everyone else in the room. Thomas Jackson and Daniel Crane hurry off to work on their new tasks as Amanda Dalton falls in step with Janice York as they walk from the Roosevelt Room.

_I just hope that my face doesn't give away the fact that my mind is about five hundred million miles away,_  Janice York says to herself as Amanda quickly briefs her on her next meeting.

**GLOBAL NEWS NETWORK NOON NEWS UPDATE - THURSDAY, JANUARY 2ND, 2070**

*UNITED NATIONS COASTAL FLOODING COMMISSION ANNOUNCES NEW EVACUATIONS FOR URBAN CENTERS AFFECTED BY RISING SEA LEVELS - Kolkata and Mumbai in India, Dhaka and Chittagong in Bangladesh, Guangzhou and Shanghai in China, Bangkok in Thailand, Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam, Rangoon in Myanmar, Miami, New York City, and Newark in United States, Alexandria in Egypt, Lagos in Nigeria, Tokyo in Japan, Jakarta in Indonesia. Each affected country has or is in the process of establishing refugee camps and relocation centers for the estimated 150 million persons directly affected by coastal flooding due to rising sea levels.

*WORLD BECOMES CARBON NEUTRAL FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THE START OF THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION - Hydrogen has effectively replaced fossil fuels for most surface and air transportation. Clean burning hydrogen engines produce water as their exhaust. Solar farms, wind turbines, hydroelectric and nuclear power plants replacing coal power plants worldwide.

*CLARKE STATION CELEBRATES 20TH ANNIVERSARY - Clarke Station celebrated its 20th anniversary in orbit quietly, its current crew of 96 busy with the ongoing construction of the Outer Planets Exploration Vehicle " _Shoemaker."_ This vehicle, tentatively scheduled for launch next year, will conduct the first detailed crewed exploration of the Outer Planets.

*RUSSIAN AND CHINESE FORCES CLASH IN MONGOLIA - China filed a formal grievance with the United Nations Security Council today, claiming unprovoked acts of aggression by Russian forces along the disputed border areas between Russia and Mongolia. An estimated 180 to 200 Chinese troops were killed and over 500 wounded in an intense 30 minute artillery barrage by Russian forces. The Russian government filed a counter claim that the artillery strike was a "preventive measure" designed to disrupt an "obvious offensive build up" at the border, and that the Chinese government was warned a day in advance that the barrage would take place unless their troops were pulled back behind the five kilometer buffer zone.

*SHACKLETON BASE COMPLETES SURVEY - Astronauts at Shackleton Base, located at the Lunar South Pole, report the completion of the first comprehensive survey of Tsiolkovskiy Crater located on the moon's Far Side. Data collected from this survey is said to solidify the Giant Impact hypothesis regarding the formation of the moon and the theory that the present moon was formed by the low speed impact and merger of two smaller bodies then in orbit around the infant Earth.

*COMET DISCOVERED - Announcement was made today on the discovery of a new comet that was given the designation of C/2070-01/MT-PAN-STARRS. Astronomers so far have given very little information regarding this discovery, but some have been quoted off the record as saying this could very well be the Great Comet of 2070, and could even dwarf the fantastic display put on by Comet Halley nine years ago.

**JOINT BASE PEARL HARBOR - HICKAM - NOON, THURSDAY, JANUARY 2ND, 2070**

_Hurry up and wait._  The thought ran through Jack Hawthorne's mind again as he sat in the VIP Lounge with Elena Roshenko and Melody Temple. Roused from a not-so-sound sleep by Tom Jackson, who advised him to pack for a trip to Washington, D.C., picked up by hoverplane from an elementary school playground two blocks from his home 45 minutes later, and whisked to the Joint Base flight line, after stops to pick up Melody and Elena - only to sit and cool their heels for  _hours_ while someone, somewhere, untangled some bureaucratic red tape.

In all fairness, they had been treated like VIP's from the start. Fed a wonderful breakfast, soon to be followed by an equally wonderful lunch, and provided with everything they asked for - except communication with their families and the fact that they were restricted to the lounge. Initially, both Jack and Elena were gratified that someone, at least, had taken their warnings seriously - but that was hours ago. Repeated inquiries as to what was going on were met with polite, nebulous answers.

In the meantime, Jack and Elena busied themselves with consolidating their data. Soon, Jack brought Melody into the mix - seeing how miserable she looked sitting there, apart from the two astronomers. Jack knew that the discovery of the threat that Melody's Comet posed to Earth had really shaken her, so, as he brought her over, he took the opportunity to have a few words with her.

"Melody - I know the last day has been pretty rough on you. But I - we - need your help. You want to be a scientist - an astronomer. Well, as far as I'm concerned, you became one the second you found that comet. Now, you can continue to sit there and feel sorry for yourself - or you can start acting like the professional astronomer that I know you are, and come help Elena and I."

Melody looked up into Jack's intense, silvery gray eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods. "Okay, Dr. Hawthorne. You're right. How can I help?"

Jack smiles down at her. "You brought your laptop and PADD?" Melody nods. "Good. You'll need both. We have a lot of data to cover. And it's Jack. Let's drop all the "doctor" nonsense."

Melody stands up, grabbing her laptop case and PADD. "Okay - Jack," she says with a small smile.

"That's better," Jack says. "Come on." Together they walk back to the table where Elena Roshenko was working. "Have you met Elena?" Melody shakes her head.

Elena Roshenko stands up, smiling. "Hello, Melody. Jack's told me nothing but good things about you. And what he said goes for me too. I'm Elena."

Melody blushes slightly as she says, "My pleasure, Elena. It's an honor. I've always admired your work."

The three sit down at the table. "Why, thank you, Melody," Elena says. "I have to admit, I'm more than a bit envious. I've never discovered a comet!" At this, Melody blushes even more, as Jack catches Elena's eye and mouths "Thank you."

"Okay," Jack says briskly, "Now where were we?" Soon, the three are deep in conversation, continually referring to the data on their laptops.

Now, as the wait stretches on, all three look up hopefully as the door to the lounge opens, and Melody gasps in surprise as Lieutenant Charles Smith strides into the room carrying a flight bag and garment bag, a Rear Admiral in step with him.

All three stand up as the two officers approach. Melody feels her breath catch in her throat a little at the unexpected sight of Charles. She looks at him quizzically and he gives her an "I'll explain everything" look in return.

The Admiral, a slim man of medium build with close cropped black hair, extended his hand to Jack Hawthorne.

"Dr. Hawthorne? Admiral Quentin Mason, Joint Base Operations. I believe we've met before."

"Of course, Admiral. Nice to see you again, sir." Jack replied, shaking the offered hand.  _Maybe now we'll get the show on the road,_  he thinks.

"The boss extends his apologies for the delay. We've decided to send Lieutenant Smith along as liaison. He'll be there to help in any way needed. Your hoverplane should be ready for boarding any time."

"His help will certainly be appreciated," Jack says with a smile, shaking Charles Smith's hand. "And these are my associates, Dr. Elena Roshenko and Melody Temple."

"My pleasure, Doctor," Admiral Mason says, shaking Elena's hand. "And to you as well, Dr. Temple."

Melody blushes as she takes Mason's hand. "Actually, I'm in my doctorate program now, Admiral," she says.  _And it's doubtful I'll finish,_  she adds to herself bitterly.

"Well -" Mason says, awkwardly, then "But I believe you're acquainted with Lieutenant Smith?"

"I am, sir," Melody says quietly, smiling at Charles.

Mason quickly introduces Charles to Jack and Elena. Then, a young officer enters the lounge.

"Excuse me, Admiral. The aircraft is ready, sir." he says.

"Well, that's it. Ladies and gentlemen, have a safe and productive trip," Mason says, then draws Charles Smith off to one side. "Take care of her, Smith," he says.

"Thank you, sir - for sending me along," Charles replies.

"Who am I to stand in the way of young love?" Admiral Mason says with a smile. "Besides, us Montana boys have to watch out for each other!" With that, Charles and Mason exchange salutes and handshakes, and then the group is led out of the lounge and onto the flight line, where a sleek hoverplane sits, waiting for them.

"You're from Montana?" Melody asks Charles as they walk to the waiting hoverplane.

"Yep. Whitefish. Admiral's from Missoula. His family is in logging. You'd never know it to look at him, but he used to be a competitive ax thrower when he was younger." Charles says.

Melody laughs and together she and Charles follow Jack and Elena into the hoverplane.

**THE CABINET ROOM - WEST WING, THE WHITE HOUSE - 8:00 A.M., FRIDAY, JANUARY 3RD, 2070**

"Dim the lights, please," Jack Hawthorne says, and pauses as the lights dim. Turning, he surveys the room. At the antique mahogany table sits the most influential, powerful group of people in the world. Seated in chairs lining the walls were more "power players." Jack, always perfectly at home in the world of academia, felt slightly light headed as he prepared to present the end of the world to the assembled group.

_Relax,_  he says to himself.  _You're just teaching an astronomy class - to the friggin' President of the United States!_

"Dr. Hawthorne?" President Janice York's voice cuts through his reverie. "We're ready."

"Of course, Madam President," Jack says firmly. He taps his PADD and the large view screen on the wall comes to life. A surprisingly sharp image appears on the screen, showing a battered, oblong object against a black background.

"Madam President, ladies and gentlemen, Comet C/2070-01/MT-PAN-STARRS," Jack says, indicating the object with a laser pointer. "These images were captured by the Tyson Orbiting Observatory less than four hours ago. We had to get creative and use some pretty unusual light wavelengths to penetrate the coma."

"It looks like a potato," says a voice from the table that Jack couldn't identify. The room ripples with nervous laughter.

"This is a very unusual potato," Jack says, relaxing a bit. "Its long axis is seventeen kilometers in length. At its widest, here," Jack indicates with the pointer, "it measures ten kilometers. It's made mostly of rock, bound together by ordinary water ice, frozen carbon dioxide - dry ice - ammonia, methane, carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide, methanol, and trace metals like iron and iridium. Spectral analysis indicates that this is an Oort cloud body," he taps his PADD and the image changes, showing the Oort cloud, "on a hyperbolic orbit, and by the amount of volatile elements sublimating off its surface already, making its first trip to the inner solar system. But, analysis of the Tyson images show something totally unexpected." He taps his PADD again and the image shifts, showing the comet, accompanied by another body.

"At first glance we thought that this was a piece of the comet, 'calved' from the original. Then we thought that maybe this was a dual comet pair - something that we've never seen. But, after spectral analysis, we've determined that this other body is, in fact, an asteroid - and a fairly dense one at that. The comet and the asteroid appear to be orbiting each other around a common center of gravity. This asteroid, as yet unnamed, measures about four kilometers in length by about two and a half kilometers wide."

Jack pauses again and drank some water. As he set the glass down, Janice York asked the question that was on everyone's mind.

"Dr. Hawthorne, in your opinion, will this thing hit us?"

"Yes," Jack answers firmly, ignoring the shocked gasps and murmurs from the assembled group. "No doubt in my mind."

"But - but - how can you be so sure? I mean, it's just your opinion. You could be wrong..." a voice from the table says. Jack identifies the owner as the Secretary of the Homeland Security Department.

"Allow me, Jack," Elena Roshenko says, standing up. "Madam President, ladies and gentlemen, I can answer Secretary Miller's question. I'm Dr. Elena Roshenko, Director of the Mauna Kea Observatory. No, Mr. Secretary, it's not an opinion. Dr. Hawthorne prudently asked for my analysis when the comet was discovered. My conclusions matched his. Still, both of us asked colleagues at our respective observatories to cross check our work and they came to the same conclusion as we did. Finally, we requested independent analysis from the IAU - and their calculations matched ours. It's a fact. We will be hit. In fact, further analysis has been able to determine that the strike - or strikes - will occur in the Northern Hemisphere."

"Strikes? As in more than one?" Janice York asks, alarmed.

"There are two bodies that we're dealing with now, Madam President. Plus, comets are unstable. There's a very good chance that this one will calve - or even break up entirely - as it gets closer to Earth. Anyone ever hear of Shoemaker-Levy 9?" Jack asks the assembled group. There were a few murmurs of assent. Jack taps a few keys on his PADD and an animated simulation appears on the screen.

"In 1993, astronomers Eugene and Carole Shoemaker, along with astronomer David Levy, discovered a comet in orbit around the planet Jupiter. Jupiter's gravity broke this comet apart into twenty-two separate pieces. From July 16th thru July 22nd, 1994, twenty two separate impacts were recorded on Jupiter's Southern hemisphere." The simulation shows each impact as it occurred with resulting fireballs and dark atmospheric scarring. "The dark spots were visible in the atmosphere for months afterwards. The largest impact was estimated to release energy equivalent to six million megatons of TNT. All this from a comet whose original nucleus was less than one third the size of our comet."

The room was totally silent for long seconds, then the President asked, "What can we expect in the way of damage if this hits us?"

Jack takes a deep breath before continuing. "If the comet remains intact, and strikes the ocean, it will create a crater almost 200 kilometers across. No matter what ocean it comes down in, it will generate a mega-tsunami that will affect virtually every coastline in the world. Total destruction within 1000 kilometers of impact. Incalculable amounts of sea water would be vaporized, resulting in world wide torrential rains for weeks or even months after impact. Vast quantities of dust will be thrown up high in the atmosphere, causing a "nuclear winter" effect that will most likely last for years afterwards."

"If the comet breaks up into smaller fragments, expect tsunamis somewhat larger than the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami that killed a quarter of a million people. Land strikes forming craters 14 to 16 kilometers in diameter. Massive disruption of global weather patterns." Jack paused again before continuing.

"As far as the asteroid is concerned, a land impact asteroid will create a crater 80 to 90 kilometers across and will cause almost total destruction in a 160 kilometer radius and significant destruction in a 650 kilometer radius. Shallow water tsunami 650 kilometers away will create waves 12 to 25 meters high. 160 kilometers from impact tsunamis will be 150 to 300 meters high. Deep water tsunamis could be as high as 100 meters 5000 kilometers from impact."

The Secretary of Defense finally speaks. "What can we do to stop it?" he asks.

"Mr. Secretary, absolutely nothing. Every contingency we have in place for deflecting a Near Earth Object assumes that we have one item in abundance - time. We have six months. We can't blow it up, contrary to what some popular movies from the last century would have you believe, and there's not enough time to deflect it. The only measures we can take are passive - evacuating coastal regions for at least 200 kilometers inland, for example."

More silence, then another voice says two words. "Holy shit."

"My sentiments exactly," Janice York says. "Dr. Hawthorne, Dr. Roshenko, Ms. Temple, Lieutenant Smith - thank you for your time. I'm sure this won't be the only time we meet. Ladies and gentlemen, let's get to work with the knowledge that we have. We need to bring the U.N. in on this as well. We have a world to save."

"What the hell is this thing called again?" The Secretary of Defense asks.

Before Jack or Elena could answer, another voice - this one from Tom Jackson, who had been silent during the presentation, spoke up.

"The IAU designation doesn't matter. This comet had a name the second it started to fall towards the inner solar system." He pauses for a moment and clears his throat.

"Shiva. The Destroyer."

**A/N - I borrowed a bit of technology from the "Star Trek" universe, in giving my characters the PADD (Personal Access Display Device), basically a souped up version of a modern day IPAD. Hopefully as I progress in the story I'll be able to leave science jargon behind and concentrate more on the story. Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	3. THE BRAIN TRUST

**CHAPTER 3 - THE BRAIN TRUST**

**JET PROPULSION LABORATORY, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA - 10:00 A.M., FRIDAY, APRIL 4TH, 2070 - THREE MONTHS TO SHIVA**

Dr. Henry Mitchell, Director of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) Jet Propulsion Laboratory - commonly referred to simply as JPL - studied the images on the view screen thoughtfully. The images showed two irregularly shaped objects. Bright jets spewed from the larger of the two.

Henry tapped commands into the keyboard in front of him, rotating the objects on the view screen. Leaning back in his chair, he taps another command into the keyboard and waits for confirmation from the computer.

"Voice command confirmed," a female voice says, emanating from the computer.

"Display grid," Henry orders, and a red grid appears above the two objects.

"Zoom on Shiva," Henry orders again, and the larger of the two objects increases in size until the other object disappears from view. Henry hears the door behind him open, then close. He doesn't turn around.

Three figures enter the room. The tallest, a well built man with black hair, olive skin, and striking gray eyes, sets a coffee cup in front of Henry, then takes a seat next to him. The other two, a short, unremarkable looking man in his late twenties with wiry red hair, wears the uniform of a Naval officer. He and his companion, a striking - even beautiful - young woman, slightly younger, with long dark hair, take seats on the opposite side of the table.

"Yaw 120 degrees west to east, pitch down 90 degrees," Henry says, and watches as the image on the view screen shifts to a different angle.

"Suspend voice," Henry says, then turns to the man sitting next to him. "Good thing its rotation is so erratic, Jack. We've got pictures of over ninety percent of its surface."

Jack Hawthorne nods, then asks, "What about the asteroid?"

"Mjolnir? About the same," Henry replies, then adds, "Not that it'll do us any good."

Jack shakes his head, chuckling. "I'm still trying to figure out who decided to let that Norwegian astronomer name the asteroid. I mean, come on - 'Mjolnir?' No one can pronounce it correctly."

"The media, Jack," Henry replies. "Once they found out that 'Mjolnir' meant 'Thor's Hammer,' it stuck. Pretty appropriate names for both, I would say." Henry turns to the couple sitting across from him. "I hear congratulations are in order. When's the big day?"

"Thank you, Dr. Mitchell," Lieutenant Commander Charles Smith says. He turns toward the woman and squeezes her hand affectionately. "Next Saturday. We decided on a civil ceremony. Not really any time for anything - more extravagant. You'll be there?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Henry says, smiling. "And I see the promotion came through?"

"Effective Monday," Charles says. "VOP. Verbal Order of the President."

"Well, she is the Commander in Chief after all," Henry says with a smile.

"Charles is the first in his class to make Lieutenant Commander," Melody Temple says with quiet pride, squeezing her fiancés hand with a smile.

_And probably the last,_ Is the thought that goes through everyone's head sitting at the table, but the thought remains unspoken.

"So, anything new?" Jack asks.

"Nada." Henry answers, then says, "Resume voice. Roll 180 degrees. Pitch up 90 degrees." They watch the image on the screen change to a new perspective. "These are the most recent photos taken by Tyson - as of four hours ago."

"Is York still stuck on the idea of shooting a nuke at this thing?" Jack asks. Henry nods his head grimly.

"At least we've managed to convince her not to try to blow it up, like those stupid movies from late last century tried to do with their own killer comets and asteroids. So now the plan is to detonate a series of high yield thermonuclear devices along the orbital paths of both Shiva and Mjolnir, in the hope that the shock waves from each blast are able to transfer sufficient negative delta vee to the comet and asteroid, slowing both down just enough to miss the Earth."

"Will it work?" Melody asks. Henry shrugs his shoulders.

"If we had years instead of months to work with, I'd say yes, we'd have a good chance," Henry says. "As it is right now, we just don't have the time to make this work. Oh, we'll probably alter their velocities somewhat - just not enough to make them miss. All we'll probably do is make them hit somewhere else in the Northern Hemisphere."

"Then why bother?" Melody asks, somewhat bitterly.

"She's the President, love," Charles replies gently. "She has to do something. And this option carries the least risk."

"Exactly right, Commander," Henry says. "Only it's not just her. This is a U.N. effort."

"Isn't she supposed to be meeting today?" Jack asks. "Jackson said something about a cabinet level meeting. He's supposed to call and bring us up to speed when it's done."

"Should be happening right now, in fact," Henry confirms.

**THE CABINET ROOM, WEST WING, THE WHITE HOUSE - 1:30 P.M., FRIDAY, APRIL 4TH, 2070**

"General Cresta, are you ready?" Janice York asks.

"Yes, Madam President," Major General Paul Cresta, USMC (Retired), former Assistant Secretary and now full Secretary for Homeland Security, stands up and begins to speak in a soft, well modulated Louisiana drawl.

"Item number one. Coastal evacuations." He taps his PADD and the view screen displays a geographic map of the continental United States, along with Alaska and Hawaii. "The first overlay, developed with the assistance of Dr. Jackson and the Office of Science and Technology Policy, displays our best projections for the extent of mega-tsunami effects on all United States coastlines." He taps his PADD and an overlay appears over the displayed maps.

There's a muted gasp in the room as the mega-tsunami projections are displayed. Using a laser pointer, Cresta highlights the map and overlays as he speaks.

"As you can see, a Pacific strike can be expected to produce mega-tsunamis that will reach as far inland as the Sierra Nevada mountains in California, all the way up to the Cascades in Oregon and Washington State. An Atlantic strike will produce mega-tsunamis that will penetrate right up to the Appalachians. A strike in the Gulf of Mexico will reach much farther inland, as there are no significant geographic features to stop or slow the advance of water. Low lying areas, such as the Gulf Coast, the Atlantic Seaboard, and the State of Florida, can be expected to be completely inundated by these mega-tsunamis." Cresta pauses for a moment and taps his PADD, changing the view to show mega-tsunami effects on Hawaii and Alaska.

"Excuse me, General - did you say 'the State of Florida?'" The slightly tremulous voice belonged to the Secretary of Agriculture, who's hometown was Tampa.

"I did, Madam Secretary," General Cresta, ever polite, replied. "You all have to understand that these projections are absolute worst case scenarios. We're basing the tsunami penetration on the assumption that Shiva falls, intact, into either the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans. There are numerous variables, depending on whether the comet impacts as a single intact body or breaks apart -"

"Calves," Thomas Jackson interjects.

" - Calves - thank you, Dr. Jackson - into smaller bodies. So we can be dealing with mega-tsunamis three to five hundred meters in height - or even bigger - or we may get tsunamis on the seven to twenty five meter range...still destructive, but only capable of penetrating inland for, say, ten to twenty kilometers. Where the impact occurs is important as well. Deep water impacts will generate much larger tsunamis that shallow water impacts."

"What about Thor's Hammer, General?" asks a new voice, this one belonging to Alexander Cray, Vice President of the United States, and former U.S. Senator and Governor of New Mexico. "Can we expect the Hammer to 'calve?'"

"I'll take this one, Paul," Thomas Jackson says quietly as he stands up. "Mr. Vice President, a comet calves because it's an inherently unstable body. Comets have been famously described as 'dirty snowballs,' and that isn't too far from the truth. Comets are basically a fairly loose collection of dirt, rocks, some metals, and carbon rich compounds held together by a variety of frozen chemicals such as water ice, dry ice - frozen carbon dioxide - frozen carbon monoxide, and other, more exotic compounds. An asteroid, on the other hand, is a solid mass of rock and metal. When Mjolnir hits, it will do so as a solid mass."

"I...see. Thank you, Tom," Cray says quietly. A large man with a full head of hair gone prematurely gray, Alexander Cray thoughtfully taps a few keys on his PADD and glances over at Janice York, meeting her gaze momentarily before both returned their attentions to the briefing.

"The next slide shows mega-tsunami effects on Hawaii and Alaska," Cresta continues smoothly. "As you can see, the effects are similar to those on the Continental U.S. Dr. Jackson, would you like to continue with the next part of the briefing?"

Tom Jackson stands up. "Thank you, Paul." He taps his PADD and a familiar image is projected onto the screen. "Meteor Crater, also known as Barringer Crater, in Arizona. This impact feature is twelve hundred meters in diameter and one hundred seventy meters deep. It was formed about fifty thousand years ago by the impact of a nickel-iron asteroid about fifty meters across, traveling at a velocity of about thirteen kilometers a second. Please note that this is about twenty five percent of the projected impact velocity of Shiva-Mjolnir." Tom pauses for a moment, takes a sip of water, and continues.

"The explosive energy released by that impact was roughly equal to that of a two to three megaton nuclear device. The thermal pulse and shock wave generated by this impact would have been one hundred percent lethal out to about thirty five kilometers, with blast and thermal effects reaching out to about one hundred sixty kilometers. And this is from an asteroid a fraction of the size of Shiva-Mjolnir. Ladies and gentlemen, I know that we've presented similar information to you in past briefings, but Paul and I both felt that we needed to give you some grasp of the scale at what we're dealing with here." Tom surveyed the room for questions, found none, then sat back down, nodding at Paul Cresta.

"Thanks, Tom. Madam President, ladies and gentlemen, we've made great strides over the last three months in establishing refugee camps away from the projected tsunami zones. FEMA has been working tirelessly at trying to anticipate every possible contingency. For the next part of the briefing, Brad Cartwright will bring you all up to date on our latest preparations."

"Thank you, General," Bradley "Brad" Cartwright says, stepping forward. A blonde, studious looking man in his early forties, Brad Cartwright had worked his entire adult life with the Federal Emergency Management Agency, rising to head the department during the current administration.

Tapping his PADD, the map of the U.S. appeared again, with a new overlay. "This overlay indicates the location of both existing and projected FEMA refugee camps. Depending on location, topography, and population density, each camp is constructed to hold anywhere from ten to one hundred thousand people. All of these camps are being located well inland from even the worst mega-tsunami predictions. For people that live inland, away from the tsunami zones, we are encouraging stockpiling consumables of all kinds. However, we are running into problems."

"Food shortages?" Janice York asks. Brad nods, his face a serious mask.

"Yes, Madam President. That, plus the fact that evacuations are far from orderly. And, in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, there are just too many people that refuse to believe what they can't yet see with the naked eye!"

"There's two other issues, Madam President," a new voice speaks up. Janice York turned to face the new speaker - the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"Admiral," Janice says, "Pardon me, Mr. Cartwright, for just a moment. You have some up to date figures to report, Admiral?"

The Chairman stands up. "Per your request, Madam President. On issue number one, redeployment - we've run into several snags - primarily on sea and airlift capability. We've had forces deployed in Europe and Asia for well over a century and forces in the Middle East since the 1990's. We've been running our redeployment efforts at one hundred percent for over two months and we've still only redeployed only about eighty five percent of the forces we had hoped to by this time."

"Along with that, there's another point," The Secretary of State speaks up. "Admiral...Mr. Cartwright, my apologies. Madam President, our allies in Europe, Asia and the Middle East are still quite - vexed - at us pulling our forces out and sending them home. They keep reminding us of our treaty obligations and have been, shall we say, less than cooperative with us, and in some cases have actively denied us the use of port facilities, railheads, and airfields."

Janice York's face clouded over in anger at this news. Her hair showed considerably more gray than it had just three short months ago. To the group assembled here in the Cabinet Room, it appears that she's aged ten years in the last three months.

"Treaty obligations?" she spits, her voice trembling with rage. "TREATY OBLIGATIONS?" Suddenly she slams her hand down on the table, causing everyone present to jump. She turns to the Secretary of State. "Leonard, inform our 'allies' that redeployments will continue, that their full cooperation is expected, and that anything less will be considered an act of aggression on their part." She then turns to the Chairman. "Admiral, I assume that our forces have used considerable restraint in dealing with our 'allies?'"

"Correct, Madam President," the Admiral replies.

"Admiral, please inform our forces that I am, as of today, authorizing them to use  _whatever force necessary_ that local commanders deem necessary in order to accomplish redeployment as expeditiously as possible, up to and including the use of force. And, if our 'allies' fire on our forces, our forces are authorized to return fire to eliminate any threats. Clear?"

"Crystal clear, Madam President," the Admiral replies with a grin, tapping furiously on his PADD.

"I am so fucking sick and tired of our 'allies' thinking that the good old U.S. of A. is gonna bail their asses out of the end of the freakin' world!" Janice snaps, venom in her voice.

"Madam President," the Admiral says gently, "We'll take care of redeployment. But there is another issue - desertions."

"What are the latest figures?" Janice asks, regaining her composure.

"Service-wide, just under ten percent. Depending on service branch, type of unit, and geographic location, figures range from a low of one to two percent to a high of thirty percent." The Admiral looks up from his PADD.

"Desertions are beginning to affect individual unit effectiveness, not to mention morale, Madam President," The Secretary of Defense says.

"Mike," Janice says, addressing the Secretary of Defense, "How effective have measures been to return deserters to their units? And how much more bleeding can our forces take before they simply aren't effective to do anything to assist with our current impact countermeasures?"

"A month at outside, Madam President," the Secretary of Defense replies, "And the closer we get to July 4th the more military assistance will be required."

Janice sighs heavily, rubbing her face with her hands before replying. "Okay. I really was hoping that it wouldn't come to this, but I don't see any other option." Janice turns to her Chief of Staff. "Dan, get with the Press office and Communications and prepare the following statement: Effective today, all military deserters will be given a one week amnesty period where they can return to their units without threat of punishment. After the amnesty period is over, all, and I mean  _all_  verified deserters will be executed for cowardice in the face of danger. They will be tried by General Courts Martial as per the current Uniform Code of Military Justice and execution of sentence will be carried out immediately upon return of a guilty verdict."

For long seconds there was shocked silence at the table, then the voice of the Speaker of the House said what was on everyone's mind.

"Madam President, you can't order summary executions. What about congressional approval for such a drastic action? What about the Supreme Court?"

"Listen to me, all of you," Janice says in a tightly controlled voice. "In three months, millions - no,  _billions_  of people will be dead. I'm doing whatever I can to save as many American lives as possible. Every single person we have serving in uniform will be vital for us to reach that goal. I'm giving those that ran one week to come back, no questions asked. After that, they take their chances. Any questions? No? Dan, you got everything?"

"On it, Madam President," Daniel Crane says, tapping on his PADD.

"Admiral, Mike - anything else?" Both the Chairman and the Secretary of Defense shake their heads. "Alright, then - Mr. Cartwright, please proceed."

Brad Cartwright stands up. "Yes, thank you, Madam President. I would like to take a little time addressing projected food shortages and infrastructure collapse. Current estimates predict nationwide food shortages to become acute three to seven days following impact. The U.S. Grain Reserve can expect to be depleted by Impact plus -"

**NASA JPL, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA - 2:00 P.M., FRIDAY, APRIL 4TH, 2070**

Henry Mitchell stares at the computer screen for long seconds following the end of his video conference with Tom Jackson. Off to the side, Melody Temple and Charles Smith sit in what can only be described as stunned silence. Jack Hawthorne, sitting next to Henry, finally breaks the silence, voicing exactly how the other three feel.

"Holy shit. Executions - for  _desertion_?"

Charles Smith clears his throat before speaking. "Actually, Jack, I'm not at all surprised. Every emergency plan that the administration has come up with depends heavily on the military...and when units can no longer function because of mass desertions, it was only a matter of time before such an order was given."

"So you approve?" Henry asks coldly.

"I understand. And something drastic had to be done. But that doesn't mean I approve." Charles says evenly. Henry opens his mouth to say something but the insistent buzz of his desk intercom leaves his next words unsaid.

Henry taps the intercom button. "Yes?"

"The Malarkeys are here, Henry. Send them in?"

"Yes, Summer. Thanks." Henry taps the button and looks at the other three. "Our storm chasers are here. Not a word about what the President plans to do about the current military retention problem."

Two sharp raps on the door are followed by the door swinging open to reveal the two newcomers. David and Blair Malarkey, two noted extreme weather meteorologists, had come at Henry's invitation to become part of what Jack Hawthorne was privately calling "The Brain Trust" - a diverse group that had been examining the potential long term effects of catastrophic impacts.

Although young - both were just thirty years of age - David and Blair were both considered experts in their field and had developed reputations for storm chasing. Whether deploying instrument packages in the path of a tornado in Oklahoma, to flying into the eye of a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico, they had been both praised and damned for their "hands on" approach to gathering data. Married right out of college, the couple as yet had no children.

"Dr. Mitchell? Dave Malarkey - and my partner...and wife - Blair," David shook Henry's hand firmly. Medium height, with dark blonde hair and a strong build from all the field work, Henry had to admit that his first impression was a good one. Blair seemed to be cut from the same mold - blonde, strong and fit, although her skin was considerably fairer.

"A pleasure, both of you," Henry says as he makes introductions with the others in the room. "You've had time to review the data we've sent?"

"We have. Do you have a conference room we can set up in? Little cramped in here," Dave says.

Henry motions to a side door. "Right this way." The group files out of the office to a small adjoining conference room, where they all sit around a rectangular table.

Dave begins his presentation. "First of all, on behalf of Blair and myself, it is a true privilege to be working on this project and I hope that our contributions will be able to help."

"This is just part of our working group," Henry explains. "We also have a shrink - Morgan Boggs - working on post-impact personality profiles and projections. There are others - doctors with CDC to project what sort of epidemics we'll face post-impact, engineers looking at infrastructure collapse - that sort of thing. But one of the biggest issues that we'll have to deal with will be post-impact weather."

"Exactly," Blair says, speaking for the first time. "The focus has been on the impact or impacts and the immediate aftermath - mega-tsunamis, earthquakes, and of course blast damage and firestorms. But very little has been said about long term effects."

"I touched a little on weather effects following impact during my brief to the President and Cabinet," Jack says, "But I'm no meteorologist. Expert opinion would be most welcome."

"Gladly," Dave Malarkey says. "Okay, you talked about rain, correct?" Jack nods. "From what I understand, the likelihood of ocean strikes is pretty high. And, whether Shiva comes down as a solid mass or breaks up, it'll be coming in fast. Correct?"

"Over fifty kilometers a second," Melody Temple speaks up for the first time.

"Okay, so, even if it does fragment into pieces say, one to two kilometers across, these chunks will still have a lot of momentum when they hit the water," Dave says.

"They'll certainly crater the ocean floor - even if they hit in the deepest ocean trenches," Henry says.

"And each impact will create a crater - lots of kinetic energy which turns into heat...a lot of heat...upon impact, even last well into post-impact. Depending on fragment size and water depth, we may even be looking at holes in the ocean itself," Blair adds.

"Wait a minute. Literal 'holes' in the ocean?" Charles asks, frowning in puzzlement.

"Exactly," says Dave. "Like a bathtub drain only on an infinitely larger scale. Imagine this - a two kilometer chunk of rock and ice slams into the Pacific, say about six hundred fifty kilometers due West of Santa Barbara. The ocean there is about nine hundred meters deep. Even through all that water the impact will gouge a huge crater in the ocean floor that will be hot for days afterward - and when I say hot, I mean magma hot. This crater will be on the magnitude of twenty five kilometers across and the impact will instantly vaporize billions of tons of seawater, not to mention causing nice twenty to twenty five meter tsunamis that will visit Santa Barbara, oh, about an hour after impact."

"In the meantime," Blair picks up the presentation, "The ocean has been violently displaced - pushed aside, if you will - by the impact. The water will try to rush back in to fill the void but instead that water will be vaporized by the incredible heat from the crater. All that water vapor has to go somewhere - and with that hot spot sitting on the ocean floor, coupled with unbelievable amounts of water vapor - well, what you have is a hurricane generator."

"This one crater will spin off hurricane after hurricane for days after the impact - until the crater finally cools enough to allow the water to rush back in a fill the void - which, in turn, will spawn more tsunamis," Dave finishes.

"Hurricanes in Southern California," Henry mutters.

"Yes - several, in fact. One right after the other - possibly for two weeks or more after the impact. And that's just one crater." Blair says.

"The rains will most likely continue for weeks or even months after impact. The entire planet will be virtually hidden under a blanket of clouds. This will have the effect of significantly lowering global temperatures - that and all the dust and debris thrown into the stratosphere. Remember the Arctic sea ice and how it disappeared? Well, it's coming back." Dave pauses to take a sip of water.

"An ice age?" Jack asks, barely able to mute the horror in his voice.

"Not a true glacial period. It won't last more than, say, three or four years," Blair says. "And remember, the rains will more than offset any lowering of sea levels due to Arctic ice buildup."

"Here's another immediate effect of post-impact rainfall. Infrastructure collapse. Dams will fail, weakened by impact spawned quakes and the influx of new water. Failing dams will cause widespread flooding. Bridges will fail also, severing lines of communication and transportation. Road networks will be washed away. Crops - there will be world wide crop failure, and the world won't see anything resembling a normal growing season for any kind of crop for several years. Power generation - hydroelectric plants will most likely be destroyed by dam failures. Extreme weather will most likely damage wind turbine farms beyond repair. Any solar farms that survive the wild weather will only be able to operate at a fraction of their efficiency due to the sun being obscured for weeks on end by clouds. Nuclear plants offer the best chance of continued operation, but those are few and far between." Dave pauses and surveys the shocked faces before him.

"We didn't even touch seismic and/or volcanic events," Blair says, "But we can't rule out the possibility that if strikes occur on or near unstable fault lines or dormant volcanic features, that these strikes may trigger earthquakes and/or volcanic eruptions. Of course, I'm a meteorologist with some training in civil engineering, not a seismologist, volcanologist , or even a geologist. By the way, do we have any of those on this team?"

"Frank Donner," Henry says. "He's with the U.S. Geological Survey. Top man in his field, an authority on seismology. He's in Colorado Springs right now, but he'll be coming here on Monday."

"I've heard of him," Dave says. "And this shrink - Boggs?"

"He'll be here on Monday as well," Jack says.

"We have a video conference scheduled for Monday - the Brain Trust will be briefing the President along with the Cabinet and some other key players. We have the weekend to work out our end of the brief. Hopefully Boggs and Donner get here early enough to give us an overview before the brief starts," Henry says worriedly.

"It'll come together, don't worry," Jack says reassuringly. "In the meantime, let's bring the Malarkeys up to speed on our end of this."

"Great idea," Dave says, "But can we do it over, say, a late lunch or an early dinner? I'm starved."

"Same here," Blair says, smiling at her husband.

"In that case - do you folks like Thai food?" Henry asks with a grin.

**PRESIDENTIAL QUARTERS, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C. - 11:00 P.M., FRIDAY, APRIL 4TH, 2070**

Janice York cuddled in close to her husband, her ear pressed to his chest, listening to the strong thrum of his heartbeat. His shorts and her nightgown lay in crumpled heaps at the foot of the bed, and the sheets and blankets were tangled about their legs.

They lay without speaking for long minutes, basking in passion's afterglow. Ed was the first to speak.

"You did the right thing today," he says softly. Jan turns her head and looks up at him.

"I hope so," she replies. "I just hope that it was the right decision. Ed, you know as well as I do that it's gonna look a whole lot different the first time some terrified nineteen year old private first class is lashed to a post to face a firing squad."

"There was an informal poll taken of our military today. Over ninety percent think it was the correct decision," Ed says.

"It's that ten percent that I'm worried about," Jan says with a sigh. "I really don't know why I'm getting all worked up over this. I'm making decisions every day that will impact all four hundred thirty four million Americans, and still some people can't see the friggin' forest for the trees. You know what Energy said to me today?"

"What's that, love?" Ed says sleepily.

"Our esteemed Secretary of Energy, the esteemed Katrina Drucker-Fain, came to report to me that the world is now officially carbon neutral and that we've finally been able to reduce our carbon emissions to the point where we aren't adding any greenhouse gases to our atmosphere."

Ed chuckled. "So what did you say?"

"I said, 'Good job, Katrina'...then went into the Oval Office and signed the Executive Order authorizing the military to execute deserters," Jan replies bitterly.

In response Ed hugs his wife - and his President - closer to him.

"I'm thinking about sending the kids to Mont-Laurier," Janice says softly.

"Oh?" Ed replies. "To your Aunt and Uncles place?"

"The kids love it there - and plus, they should be - I mean, it's not close to any coastline, and -" Janice stammers.

"So's Colorado Springs," Ed says reasonably. "And the kids won't have to worry about speaking French at Cheyenne Mountain."

"Cheyenne Mountain won't be any place for kids," Janice says just as reasonably. "And both the kids speak pretty damn good conversational French."

"Well, what about Huntington, then?" Ed asks.

"Call it a...hunch. A feeling, Ed. I just think the kids will be safer in Dolbeau."

Ed shakes his head resignedly. "Quebec. Of all places. When do you plan on doing this?"

"June. When school lets out. That still gives us almost three weeks before..." Jan lets the remainder of her thought go unsaid. In response, Ed pulls her closer to him.

"What does your uncle do again?" Ed asks.

"He works for Timcal Canada," Jan replies sleepily.

"Oh. That's right. Graphite mining." Ed mumbles as he pulls his wife closer to him. In spite of the incredible pressure of the last three months, and the difficult decisions of the day, she had fallen quickly into an exhausted slumber.

"Graphite mining," Ed repeats. "Hell of a place for my kids to grow up in."


	4. PREPPING

**CHAPTER 4 - PREPPING**

**JUST OUTSIDE FALCON, COLORADO - 4:00 A.M., WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4TH, 2070 - ONE MONTH TO SHIVA/MJOLNIR**

The man stood outside in the pre-dawn chill, staring up at the sky. The crescent moon had set a few hours before, but the sky was brightly illuminated nonetheless. Hovering over the horizon where the sun would soon be rising in a couple of hours, Comet Shiva glowed brightly, its tail curving skyward in a magnificent, glittering arc. Absently the man reached down with his left hand, finding the dog's head with his fingers and scratching just behind the ear. The dog's tail thumped against the ground in pleasure. The man's right hand rested casually on the butt of a pistol secured in a holster at his waist.

Although he couldn't see it from his vantage point, the man knew that nearby Cheyenne Mountain had been the frantic hub of activity over the last few months. Even now, the government was continuing with their preparations for The End. That's what the media had taken to calling the imminent impact of the Comet Shiva and its asteroid companion, Mjolnir - The End. In a few weeks, the U.S. Government would effectively relocate from Washington, D.C. to the Cheyenne Mountain complex just outside Colorado Springs. Efforts to keep this move and the preparations involved secret had failed miserably. Now, in addition to the influx of military and government workers, all of El Paso County had been dealing with what the man thought of as "pre-refugees" - people from coastal areas that had fled inland, as well as other that decided to throw their lot in with wherever the Feds had decided to take up residence.

The man sighed heavily, his breath forming a cloud in front of his face in the chill air - unusual for early June. The man and his family had settled here years ago as part of a loose collection of fellow "Preppers" - people that were devoted to a lifestyle of preparing for any number of natural or man-made disasters. The small group had purchased plots of land outside Falcon and had taken to calling their little society "The Enclave." And, aside from a minor media stir a few years ago, the had managed to live in relative anonymity - until recently.

First, the news of the impending Shiva/Mjolnir impacts had kindled new interest in what the media called "Doomsday Prepping." And along with that interest came people interested in the people that already followed that lifestyle - at first just media types, but then more and more of these "pre-refugees" started showing up, thinking that maybe hanging close to someone with emergency stockpiles may just be a good idea. Now, it's gotten so bad that the man doesn't dare walk outside of his own compound without being armed, in spite of the increased police and military presence in the area.

The man hears the dog whine low in its throat and he tenses for a moment, tightening the grip on the butt of the pistol as his ears pick up the sound of soft footsteps coming up from behind. He feels the dog relax and he relaxes as well - if it was an intruder the dog would have sounded a very loud vocal alarm long before. The man just doesn't bring the dog out with him on his nightly walks for company alone.

A woman quietly steps up to the man's side, wordlessly handing him a steaming cup of coffee. Murmuring his thanks, the man removes his hand from the dog's head and takes the cup. His right hand never strays from the weapon at his side. Glancing at the woman standing at his side, he notices with approval the stubby outline of an Armalite "Stinger" carbine slung across her back. She's learned as well not to walk outside the compound unarmed.

"Up early again," the woman says quietly.

"I'll sleep better once that thing hits us and is done with it," the man replies.

"Bobby, you've done everything humanly possible to get ready for something like this!" the woman says. "Remember when we first moved here - how people laughed at us? Listen - I don't hear anyone laughing now!"

The man - Bobby - casually slips his arm around the woman's waist. "I know," he sighs. "We've been off the grid for years. Solar cells and wind turbine for power. Hydrogen fueled generator as backup. Well water. Enough canned, dry and dehydrated food to feed all of us for two years. We raise chickens, rabbits, and goats. We grow our own vegetables. The Compound -" he indicates the shadowy structure behind them "- is like a fortress and totally defendable. Two like minded neighbors that we can call on for help if we need it. But I still feel like I missed  _something_!"

The woman tightened her arm around his waist. "Stop worrying. You didn't -" A sudden low growl from the dog silences her instantly. Dropping his cup, Bobby draws his pistol in one smooth motion as the woman moves a few steps to one side, unslinging the carbine and tucking the stock under her arm. The dog continues its low, rumbling growl as both man and woman swivel from side to side, scanning the surrounding terrain with both eyes and ears for any threat.

The woman hears it first. A high pitched, almost inaudible whine accompanied by the sound of tires rolling slowly over asphalt. The woman touches Bobby's arm and points towards a stand of trees. Just as Bobby turns to look, a large, dark shape emerges from behind the trees, rolling forward slowly on eight large tires. Bobby and the woman can make out a turret on top of the vehicle scanning slowly from side to side, a long gun barrel pointing in whatever direction the turret was facing at the time. There's no lights visible anywhere on the vehicle as it rolls slowly to a stop and the high pitched whine slowly dies away.

Bobby and the woman can make out a figure standing up in the turret. They see the figure pull itself out of the vehicle and drop to the ground. Bobby holsters his pistol as the woman slings the carbine across her back. Next to them the dog ceases growling and begins an excited whine, it's tail thumping eagerly against the ground.

"Shut up, dog," Bobby snaps as he steps forward to greet the newcomer. The dog instantly falls silent but the tail continues drumming against the ground.

"Hey, Bobby - Julia," a female voice greets them, taking off the cumbersome helmet and running fingers through a mass of close cropped dark curls. The newcomer - obviously a soldier - stops in front of them and bends slightly, vigorously scratching the dog behind the ear.

"Hey, Pepper! Glad to see me? Good dog!" The newcomer fishes in a pocket and removes a strip of beef jerky from a pouch, then feeds it to the eager dog. Straightening up, the newcomer addresses the couple.

"Up early today again. Admiring the instrument of our imminent destruction?" The newcomer jerks her thumb at the comet looming in the sky.

"Nice to see you, Jamie," Bobby says warmly. "Back on nights now?"

"For now. Hopefully that'll -" suddenly a voice sounds from the radio strapped to the newcomer's equipment vest.

"Sergeant Wise, can I let the troops dismount for ten? Everyone needs a stretch and piss break," the voice says.

"Roger, but keep a close eye on the Runners, Zack," the newcomer answers into the radio.

"Awesome. Thanks, Sarge," the voice crackles over the radio. Almost immediately a hissing sound could be heard, followed by a dull thump. Looking back at the vehicle, Jamie, Bobby and Julia can see a ramp at the rear of the vehicle has been lowered, allowing the occupants to dismount.

The Sergeant turns back to the couple. "As I was sayin', hopefully we won't be on night patrol for much longer. But my C.O. saddled me with three Runners, and they have to earn our trust before we loosen the leash on them. I don't think I'll have any problem with two of them - they came running back as soon as the President announced amnesty and what happens after amnesty. It's the third one that I'm worried about."

"Why's that, Jamie?" Julia asks.

"They just caught this kid last month. By rights he should be rotting in an unmarked grave someplace with a bullet in the back of his skull - but he's got connections. His brother-in-law is a Senator from Pennsylvania. Senator Michael Everdeen. Seems that the good Senator is married to this dirtbag's oldest sister and she got all emotional and pressured hubby into pulling strings to get him out of being shot for desertion." The young woman paused, obviously upset by what she viewed as "working the system."

"Has there been many executions?" Bobby asks. "We never hear much about that order on the regular news outlets."

"I've personally seen two," Jamie Wise replies. "This one shoulda been three. Instead, I get saddled with 'retraining' him!"

An uncomfortable silence follows, finally broken by Bobby.

"Amazing how quiet your combat vehicle is," he says to Jamie.

Jamie Wise nods. "It's pretty sweet, that's for sure. The Improved Stryker Mark Three Armored Combat Vehicle System. Hydrogen engine - that's why it's so damn quiet - cruising range in excess of five hundred kilometers, top road speed over one hundred kilometers an hour. Improved armor protection, thirty millimeter chain gun with coaxially mounted seven point six two millimeter machine gun. The chain gun and coax can depress fifteen degrees and elevate to eighty degrees. Dual retractable launcher for the Spike Mark Four fire and forget anti-armor missiles. Top turret mounted fifty caliber M2 machine gun - hard to believe that gun's been in service for over one hundred fifty years - and a rear turret deck mounted forty millimeter grenade launcher."

"Sounds lethal," Julia says quietly.

"It's supposed to be," Jamie says. "It carries a fully equipped infantry squad as well. There's all around firing ports so the troop inside can engage targets without having to expose themselves. There's a ton of variants also - command and control, medical evacuation, reconnaissance, and three mobile gun system variants with ninety, one-oh-five, and one hundred twenty millimeters main guns. Fuel's no problem as long as there's a water source. Break down the water into hydrogen and oxygen, use the hydrogen for fuel."

"Night vision, too," says Bobby. "We didn't see any lights when you rolled up."

"We run night vision on all our patrols. A lot of the refugees we've been getting up here seem to think that they're entitled to take whatever they want, whenever they want. Catch a lot of 'em in the act this way." Jamie says.

"And what do you do with them if you do catch them?" Julia asks, her interest stemming from her former career as a Special Agent for the FBI.

"Depends," Jamie replies. "We don't lock them up - can't waste resources like that. And we don't execute anyone - not yet, anyway. So we either bring them back to their camp and let them go - or we kick them out of their assigned FEMA camp. I've seen that done, too, by the way - effectively we're banning these people from our help."

"What happens to them after they get sent packing?" Julia asks.

Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise shrugs. "Who knows? Maybe they find another FEMA camp. Maybe they end up in a homeless shelter in Denver. Maybe they con some locals into taking them in. All I know is what I've been told to do with them."

"What about the rest of the country? The news that we get here - well, I'm not gonna say that it's censored - but it sure feels like it's heavily 'filtered.'" Bobby asks.

"Well, in spite of all the refugees that we've seen, there's an amazing number of people still living on all three coasts. They either don't believe that there's gonna be an impact or they don't believe that there's gonna be tsunamis. Inland, things are already starting to break down. Public safety nationwide is taking a hit. Cops, firefighters, and paramedics are just walking away from their jobs. Guess they feel that their families come first," Jamie says, irony dripping from her voice.

Bobby stiffens at the news of police abandoning their jobs. As a retired Police Captain, he spent over twenty years working in law enforcement and had been dedicated to his job.

"I heard - I heard that things were getting bad in the cities already," Julia says.

Jamie nods. "We don't see much of that here 'cause of what's been going on with Cheyenne Complex. Colorado Springs is actually pretty lucky in that regard. Their public safety infrastructure is pretty much intact. The biggest problem that we have now is refugees. I'm worried about what happens after - when people come this way wanting the government to fix everything. They're gonna be pissed when they find out that we can't. Guys, I'm not supposed to say anything about this but - well, we've been doing a lot of training in crowd control, and some shrink with the President's 'Brain Trust' has been teaching the leadership on how to spot signs in our troops - signs that they won't obey orders like firing into crowds. That shit has me worried as hell!"

"And it's only gonna get worse," Bobby says. "I saw something like this when I was with Denver Metro. Remember the Food Riots in 2048? We used everything to break up those crowds - water cannon, vehicles spraying tear gas, pepper balls, beanbag rounds in our shotguns, crowd control formations - and we still got the order to lock and load live ammo. Thank God it never came to that...but it sounds like we won't be so lucky this time."

"You 'Enclave' people are vulnerable," Jamie says. "Earlier tonight I had to chase off refugees from Flickerman's place. Last night I had to do the same thing at Heavensbee's. You really need to finish getting your fences up. Once the shit hits the fan I don't know how much help we'll be able to give, if any."

"You were at Stu Flickerman's earlier? When? I didn't hear anything," Bobby says.

Jamie Wise grins, her white teeth a sharp contrast against her dark face. "Stu didn't either. We passed a group of refugees on the road about twenty minutes before. They scattered when they heard us coming but our thermal sights made 'em stand out like bugs on a plate. Technically they aren't supposed to be out after 9 P.M. but curfew is not a priority right now. But, I decided to see what they were gonna do so I found a nice hide near Stu's place and waited. Sure enough, this group shows up and makes a beeline for Stu's farm - only to find my squad waiting for them. I don't think that's one group that'll break curfew again any time soon."

The radio crackles again at Jamie's shoulder. "Securing from break now, Sarge."

Jamie turns back toward the vehicle and keys her microphone. "Roger, I'm just about -" She sees a figure making its way from a stand of trees towards the Stryker. "- uhh, stand by, Zack. On my way."

"Gotta go, guys," Jamie says hurriedly, turning and starting to jog towards the figure making its way back to the vehicle. As she runs Bobby and Julia can here her yelling at the shadowy form.

"You! Trooper!  _Freeze right there!_  I know it's you, Snowflake! What the hell did I tell you about staying within three meters of the Stryker  _at all times?_ Huh? Runner, you damn lucky I don't cap you right here and now!" Jamie reaches the figure and continues her tirade.

"Private Snow, gimme one good reason why I shouldn't grease you right here and now!" The Sergeant is gripping the other soldier's gear firmly, dragging him back to the Stryker.

"Sergeant, I really had to go bad!" Private Snow whines, stumbling while trying to keep his balance.

"Did you bury it, at least, Snowflake?" Jamie barks. The small man nods quickly. "Okay, listen close, Snowflake. You gotta take a dump, you dig a nice hole next to the Stryker and do your business there. You go looking for privacy again, I swear to God I'll cap you right then and there. Take a look around - notice that Michael Everdeen, your Senator brother-in-law, is nowhere to be seen. Got it?" Without waiting for a reply, Jamie shoves Private Snow into the back of the vehicle and makes a circular motion over her head with her hand. Immediately the engine whines to life and the ramp raises back into place.

Jamie quickly climbs up the side of the armored vehicle then settles back into the turret. As the vehicle starts to move she raises her hand one last time at the couple still standing nearby.

Bobby and Julia wave back, watching the Stryker disappear from view. Bobby bends down and picks up his coffee cup, then turns towards his wife.

"For a moment I thought we were gonna witness a field execution," he says grimly.

"You know things are gonna get worse - much worse," Julia says. "Robert Joseph Trinket, now's not the time to get soft."

Bobby slips his arm around his wife's waist as they walk back towards their compound. "Don't worry - the last thing I want to do is look soft in front of a Fed!" Julia laughs quietly as they walk.

"Once it gets light, I'm gonna go see Stu Flickerman and Elliott Heavensbee. We really need to get the rest of our perimeter fences built. Like you said, babe - things are only gonna get worse." Bobby says. His wife says nothing as they reach the compound and slip through the gate, closing and locking it securely behind them.

Overhead, the comet glitters brightly. In the last ten minutes, it's moved thirty thousand kilometers closer to the Earth.

**JET PROPULSION LABORATORY, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA - 6:00 A.M., WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4TH, 2070**

"I'm not getting anything," Jack Hawthorne says to the NASA communications technician sitting across from him. "Are you sure the feed's up?"

"Yes, sir," the technician answers, frowning at the computer display while tapping keys. "I just don't - ahh! Got it!"

A voice emanated from the wall mounted speaker. "- Control, this is Clarke, over."

"This is Mission Control, go ahead, Clarke, over." A metallic voice answers.

"This is Clarke. Do we have feed with JPL? Over."

"Roger that. Switching now." Jack's computer screen wavered a bit, then steady to show the image of a man about Jack's age, but with hair gone iron gray, sitting in what appeared to be an incredibly cluttered room.

"Go ahead, JPL," the metallic voice says.

"Thank you, Control. Clarke, this is Hawthorne at JPL. You copy?" Jack says.

The face on the computer screen breaks into a tired smile. "Jack, you son of a bitch, how the hell are you?"

Jack smiles back at the face on his screen. "I've been better, Marco. How are you reading me?"

"Five by five here, Jack - and I hear ya. We've been pretty busy today already. The crew from the Astarte Orbiter completed rendezvous with us right before midnight your time. And, if everything goes as planned, our first pusher nuke should detonate in the vicinity of Shiva/Mjolnir in less than five minutes." The astronaut glances to one side and says something to someone out of camera range, then turns back.

Operation Ricochet - the attempt to use the shock waves from nuclear detonations in the paths of both Shiva and Mjolnir in an effort to change their "delta vee" - their orbital velocity as both objects approach the Earth - was launched several months ago. Using the most powerful launch platforms available to NASA, the Russian Space Agency, the Chinese Space Authority, and the European Space Agency, a series of powerful thermonuclear weapons was launched to intercept the bodies as far from Earth as possible. A series of carefully planned detonations would, it was hoped, change the velocity of the objects enough so that they would miss the Earth entirely.

Jack glanced over at Henry Mitchell, sitting at a console to his right, then at Melody Temple-Smith and Elise Orr, recently arrived from Hawaii, sitting at consoles to his left. Both Henry and Melody give Jack a thumbs up.

"Marco, Henry indicates that we're tracking with Tyson and Melody is getting good telemetry from Watchdog -" Watchdog was the last spacecraft launched towards Shiva/Mjolnir, designed to monitor the detonations from as close a vantage point as possible and return data as to points of detonation, explosive yield, and immediate effects on the two bodies "- and your folks in Clarke are monitoring as well."

"Three minutes," Melody announces. Behind her, Charles Smith, Melody's newlywed husband, was sitting and craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what his wife was doing.

"Three minutes," Jack echoes to Marco Kimbrough. "How's the Astarte crew holding up, Marco?"

"Copy three minutes. Not bad considering they managed to get back here in record time. Venus was not in an optimum position on their departure date for a standard Venus-Earth return trajectory. They managed to dock with us with literally zero maneuver propellant left in their tanks. As for the crew, they're disappointed at having to leave Venus orbit so suddenly, and of course scared like we all are. They had to make the transit in zero-gee so Doc has them towards the Hub in micro-gee and is working on getting their strength up before letting them return to the Wheel. Uhh...stand by, JPL." Marco turns to one side, his hand cupping over his microphone as spoke rapidly to someone off camera.

"Standing by," Jack says calmly. He glances around the room, then presses another button on the console in front of him.

"Elena, are you copying?" Jack asks.

"Roger that," the voice of Elena Roshenko crackles over the speaker.

"How's everything looking on your end?" Jack asks his counterpart at the Mauna Kea Observatory.

"Good visual on the main 'scope. Tracking smoothly. Cameras are taking one frame every five seconds. The damn comet really looks beautiful, Jack," Elena replies.

"Two minutes," Melody announces. Jack nods at her then keys his microphone.

"Copy two minutes, everyone. Marco, back with us?"

" - minutes. I say again, I copy two minutes. Sorry about that, Jack. Running a space station is a twenty four hour job, even when the end of the world is staring you in the face," Marco chuckles. Jack grins at his friend.

"No problem here, Marco. Is your force field up and running yet?" Jack asks.

"We should finish installation in a week. Once it's tested and operational, we've arranged to have both the Russians and the Chinese shoot one of those anti-satellite canister rounds at us in a retrograde orbit. We'll have a closing velocity at over seventeen kilometers a second. Only one third the delta vee of what we can expect from the Shiva/Mjolnir debris cloud, but these chunks will be much bigger than anything we can expect from the comet." Marco pauses for a moment and looks thoughtful. "I sure as hell hope it works - otherwise this station is gonna be shredded by all the crap that comet is dragging here with it."

The force field was new technology that had only been developed over the last couple of years. Jack wasn't entirely sure of the science behind it - he was, after all, an astronomer, not a physicist - but in essence, a series of generators focused a coherent field of electromagnetic energy that was "bound" together to form a sort of wireless electric fence, only infinitely more powerful than any electric fence every seen on Earth. Objects that came in contact with this field were violently repelled in a flash of electromagnetic energy. In theory, this field would repel the billions of smaller comet chunks that were going to sweep across the Earth's orbit at time of impact.

In theory.

"One minute," Melody announces. Jack echoes the countdown to Marco and Elena.

"I don't know why we're getting so keyed up," Marco says. "We won't see anything for almost seven minutes after the initial detonation. Anyway, this force field is really gonna drain our power. We've run sims and it looks like we'll have to shut down virtually every system on the station except for minimal life support as long as the field is on. So we're gonna be blind, deaf, and mute for the duration."

"Well, it was your decision to stay up there," Jack says reasonably.

"Copy that," Marco says. "And if you notice, it's not just us staying put through all this. Shackleton on the Moon and Lowell Station on Mars are also opting to sit tight. After all, we're all pretty much self sustaining - we can run for years without re-supply and for a lot longer if we all tighten our belts and eliminate non-essential activities."

"Thirty seconds," Melody says. Jack reaches over and patches her feed to everyone. Now everyone on the net can hear her countdown. Jack finds that he's holding his breath and lets it out slowly. Like Marco said, it'll be almost seven minutes until they even know if the first nuke goes off or -

"Twenty seconds." - not. Jack forces his hands to unclench and nervously takes a swallow of coffee.

"Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

A whooshing sound fills the room as everyone's collective breath lets out. Jack keys his microphone.

"Alright folks, take a minute to compose, but don't relax. We should get a return on the first nuke in less than seven minutes. And, we have twenty birds set to detonate at three minute intervals over the span of an hour. Let's not lose focus."

Murmurs of assent from the room, accompanied by radio transmissions of "Copy" and "Roger that," tell Jack that his team is alert and ready. Jack sees a figure stride into the room. He recognizes the man and stands up, as does Lieutenant Commander Charles Smith.

Jack extends his hand. "Admiral, just in time for the show."

Rear Admiral Quentin Mason grips Jack's hand firmly. "Good to see you again, Jack," he says warmly, then turns and nods towards Melody and Charles. "Melody - Charles. How's the happy couple?"

"Just fine, Admiral, thank you," Charles says. Mason smiles and turns back to Jack.

"The phone's ready?" He asks. Jack nods and points to a single phone sitting by itself on a small desk.

"Direct line to the Oval Office," Jack says.

"Good," Mason says. "Guess they figured that a flag officer needed to be the one to talk to the President."

Jack shrugs. "I'll be right here to answer any questions that she may have."

"Thanks, Jack," Mason says with a smile.

"Five minutes to first return," Melody announces.

"Elena, how's the view with the big 'scope?" Jack asks.

"Good here, Jack," Elena replies.

"Henry? All okay with Tyson?" Thumbs up in response.

"Melody? Watchdog transmitting?" Another thumbs up as Melody stares intently at the screen.

"Marco? Everything nominal?"

"Five by five, Jack," is the confident response.

"Coffee, Admiral?" Jack asks, indicating the coffee maker.

"Thanks, Jack. Yes, please." Together Mason and Jack walk to the coffee maker. As they pour their beverages and stir in sweeteners and creamer, Mason speaks to Jack in a low voice.

"Jack, this isn't for publication, but the President is set to evacuate her kids to Canada if Ricochet doesn't work. Apparently she has family there."

Jack looks at the Admiral, startled. "Canada? I would have thought the Springs."

"Me too," Mason says grimly. "I'm not entirely sure what to read into this - if anything. Just remember, not for publication, Jack."

"Of course, Admiral," Jack says as they walk back to the work stations.

Jack gets seated and indicates a chair nearby for the Admiral. As Mason sits, Melody's voice announces, "One minute to first detonation. One minute."

Mason turns to Jack. "You think this'll work?" he asks.

"No," says Jack. "We just don't have enough time. But we had to try  _something_."

"Agreed," Mason says, glancing around the room. He realizes that no one else in the room expects it to work, either. Melody continues her countdown, until, once again -

"Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

Detonation.

A brilliant pinprick of light appears on every computer monitor in the room. At Mauna Kea, Elena Roshenko had stepped outside the observatory and turned her gaze towards the comet. With her naked eye she could see the almost painfully bright flare, further away from Earth than Venus is from the Sun. An artificial super nova, created in the hope of saving mankind from destruction.

Instruments on board the orbiting Clarke Station capture data from the detonation, and Marco Kimbrough is heard to mutter, "Damn thing went off exactly  _on time_!"

Muted cheers erupt in JPL as the pinprick of light fades away. Admiral Quentin Mason wordlessly makes his way to the solitary phone, picks it up, waits for a few seconds, murmurs a few quick words, and hangs up. He walks back and takes his seat next to Jack.

"I've informed the President that the detonations have begun." he says. Jack, intent on analyzing data, nods without taking his eyes off the screen.

This scene was repeated nineteen more times over the course of the next hour. Each thermonuclear device detonated on time and on station. Admiral Mason waited until the last device exploded, then went to inform the President that, at least as far as the detonations were concerned, that Operation Ricochet had been a success.

"Alright, folks - let's start crunching some numbers!" Jack announces, and begins to issue orders to the assembled astronomers as well as Elena Roshenko at Mauna Kea and Marco Kimbrough in Clarke Station. "We'll need updated orbital projections ASAP. Elena, Henry, Melody - you three need to be in each others' hip pockets correlating this data."

Jack sits at his work station and continues to analyze incoming data. Admiral Mason stands quietly by, then finally asks the question.

"How long before you can give me something I can tell the President?"

Jack sighs and leans back in his chair. He looks at the clock absently.

"Three hours. We'll know for sure by then."

Mason nods. "Thanks, Jack."

**THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C. - 6:00 P.M., WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4TH, 2070**

"My fellow Americans. Several months ago, under the auspices of the United Nations, a plan was developed that was our only real chance of success in avoiding an imminent impact by the astronomical bodies known as Shiva and Mjolnir."

"This plan, which came to be known as Operation Ricochet, involved launching twenty high yield thermonuclear devices at the oncoming comet and asteroid, to be detonated - not on the surface of these bodies - but in the orbital paths, taking the calculated risk that the shock waves from the detonations would be of sufficient strength to slow and alter the orbital paths of both Shiva and Mjolnir, causing them to miss the Earth entirely."

"This morning, shortly after nine o'clock Washington time, these devices made rendezvous with the oncoming comet and asteroid, and detonations occurred at a rate of one every three minutes for close to an hour. According to the astronomers and staff at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, all devices detonated on time and exactly where they were supposed to detonate."

"Several hours ago, JPL astronomers, working in concert with the International Astronomical Union as well as NASA, the European Space Agency, and the Clarke Orbital Station, completed their revised calculations of the orbits of the Shiva/Mjolnir bodies, and found that, while there was a measurable change in orbital velocity, it was not enough to cause these bodies to miss us on July 4th."

"Therefore, as President of the United States, I've ordered the final preparations for the imminent impacts to be continued, and I urge all of my fellow American citizens to take all prudent and legal precautions and preparations necessary. At the conclusion of this broadcast, there will be a listing of government agencies with telephone numbers that you can turn to for assistance. Thank you, good night, and good luck to you all."

The blinking red light disappears from the top of the camera. "And - we're off, Madam President."

Janice York sighed and rubbed her face, gesturing with her free hand at someone standing off to the side. Her husband appears next to her instantly.

"This is it, Ed," she says quietly. "Are the kids ready?"

"Packed and ready," her husband replies. "I've spoken with the head of their security detail. Good man. He'll take good care of the kids and make sure they make it to your Aunt and Uncles safely."

Jan quickly bites back tears. For the millionth time she wonders if sending the kids to Mont-Laurier, Quebec, is really the right thing to do, then steels herself.

"I want to talk to him," Jan says, rising from behind her desk. Dan Crane, her Chief of Staff, suddenly appears.

"Madam President, we have a meeting in twenty minutes with -" he begins before Jan cuts him off.

"I'll be there, Dan," she snaps. "Colonel York and I are going to the Quarters. I'll be back in ten minutes." Without waiting for a response - or her husband - Jan turns and strides out of the Oval Office, making her way upstairs to the Quarters. Ed York hurries to catch up to her.

"He's up there now, right?" she asks.

"Yes, he's with the kids now - and the rest of the detail." Ed replies.

Jan and Ed walk into the kids quarters. Veronica and Ed, Jr. both visibly upset, are sitting on their beds, packed suitcases by their feet. At the sight of their parents they both bound to their feet and hurl themselves into their parents' arms.

Jan and Ed hug their children close to them, every member of the York family quietly sobbing for a minute or two, until Veronica breaks the silence.

"We don't wanna go - right Ed?" she says between sniffles. Her twin brother can only nod, not trusting himself to speak.

Jan takes both her kids firmly by their shoulders. "Now listen to me - both of you. I know you guys love Quebec, and I already told your Uncle Henri and Aunt Clotilde that you're coming. I know you don't wanna go - but you gotta. For me and your Dad. Okay?" Janice bites the inside of her cheek in an effort to remain in control.

Both kids were crying quietly, but they both nod their heads slowly.

"Okay then. It's not forever - and don't start on me again about Colorado Springs. The Springs won't be any place for either of you. I'll send for you just as soon as all this nonsense is over. Deal?" She quickly gathers her kids to her and gives each one a hug and kiss. The kids turn to say their goodbyes to their father. While they do, Jan searches the room with her eyes until she spots the head of the kids' security detail. She beckons him over.

"Madam President?" he says quietly.

"It's Greg, right?" Janice York asks.

"Yes, ma'am. Gregory Coin. I was assigned to the kids right before last Christmas." He turns and indicates a female agent standing nearby, who quickly joins him. "My wife, Lynnette - also part of the kids' detail."

Jan shakes hand with both of them. "I wish I had the opportunity to spend more time with you - and them -" she indicates her kids with a nod of her head "- but, circumstances being what they are and all..."

"Madam President, your children are our only priority," Lynnette Coin says quickly. "We'll get them to Mont-Laurier quickly and safely - that I guarantee."

"Thank you both," Jan says gratefully. "I know you spoke with my husband already - we don't want any public transportation used to get the kids to Quebec. No Hoverplanes, no trains - travel by car all the way."

"We've been briefed thoroughly, Madam President," Gregory Coin says. "Ma'am, we should be going."

"Of course," Jan says in almost a whisper, then, "Kids, come here." She and Ed gather them in for one last hug while other agents quietly gather up the kids' luggage. Jan can see Gregory Coin talking quietly into a comm unit on his wrist, then glance at his wife and nod.

Wordlessly everyone moves to the door. Jan and Ed stand quietly by, watching as the efficient Secret Service staff moves the kids out the door. Suddenly, Veronica stops, turns, and says, "Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Dad. Ed and I love you."

Jan and Ed can both feel tears welling up in their eyes as their daughter turns away. They catch one last glimpse of Ed, Jr., waving solemnly, then the door shuts firmly behind them,

Jan collapses into her husband's arms. This would be the last time either one ever saw their children again.


	5. COLLAPSE

**CHAPTER 5 - COLLAPSE**

**ARKANSAS RIVER JUST OUTSIDE PINE BLUFF, JEFFERSON COUNTY, ARKANSAS - 6:00 A.M., FRIDAY, JUNE 20TH, 2070 - TWO WEEKS TO SHIVA/MJOLNIR**

Lucas O'Dair let his hand rest lightly on the throttle of the small trolling motor, feeling the slight vibration in his palm as he smoothly navigated the boat into a deeper channel of the wide, glassy river. His practiced eye glanced quickly at each of the three trolling lines paying out behind the boat. Satisfied at the appearance of the lines and the boat's heading, Lucas tapped the throttle lock and secured the tiller in place, effectively putting the small boat on auto pilot.

Lucas turned, facing around to his two companions, and pulled his ball cap off to vigorously scratch through his unruly mop of reddish-blonde hair. He grinned at his two companions - a pair of teenaged boys that shared his bronzed complexion and auburn hair. They returned his smile tentatively, trying - and failing - to mask the fear in their eyes.

Lucas pointed at a thermos sitting at the feet of the younger boy. "Sam, hand me the coffee, would you?" he asked, and murmured his thanks to the boy as Sam complied. Out of the corner of his eye Lucas noticed one of the lines twitch a bit. As he carefully poured a cup of coffee, he glanced at the older boy, who was showing no reaction to the twitching line.

"All these lines okay, Luke?" he asked, taking a cautious sip of his coffee. Startled, Luke turned towards the older man and quickly nodded.

"Yes, sir," he stammered, looking guilty. The older man just grinned knowingly and nodded.  _Gotta keep them focused on today, not two weeks from now,_  he says to himself. Taking another sip of coffee, Lucas leaned back and allowed himself to relax just a bit.

A mist hangs over the still waters as the boat, traveling no faster than a walking man, glided almost noiselessly through the water. Suddenly, the pole on the right side of the boat bent forward suddenly, its tip almost touching the water. With a practiced hand Lucas killed the motor and spun in his seat to retrieve his pole. Before he turned he had seen Luke grab the right side pole and start to reel the line in, and, as Sam grabbed up the pole on the left he saw the tip of that pole bend forward. With a grin on his face Lucas reached for his own pole riding on the transom, only to see it bend forward suddenly.

_A three-fer!_  Lucas says to himself as he and the two boys quickly reel in their lines. Even though the boys had a head start with their reeling, Lucas was the first to land his fish, a nice sized rainbow trout, as he had less line to haul in. Careful to keep tension on his line, he grabbed up the net and, with a practiced flip, slipped the net under the wiggling fish. Hauling the net into the boat, he reached in and grabbed the trout firmly, popping the hook free and dumping the fish in the wire mesh creel hanging in the water.

Replacing the pole back in its trolling mount, Lucas lets the hook dangle in the water and turns to see which of his sons needed help. Seeing that Luke's fish was almost at the boat, he helps his oldest son land his fish, then repeats the process with Sam. Soon, three nice sized rainbow trout were splashing in the creel.

With a satisfied smile, Lucas restarts the trolling motor and heads back into the deep channel as the boys pay their lines out again. Satisfied with the boat's speed and direction, Lucas is the last to pay his own line out. Finally, he retrieves his coffee cup from the cup holder, noting with pleasure that he didn't spill a drop.

Although they didn't repeat the three-fer, their luck was excellent that morning, and Lucas noted that they had a nice haul of fifteen rainbows, the smallest being a good thirty centimeters. Although a nice breakfast of trout and eggs sounded wonderful, these fish weren't for eating - at least not right away. As soon as they got their catch home and cleaned, Lucas's wife Holly would get busy drying and salting their catch, preserving it for what was sure to be some lean days after The End.

Seeing that the boys had secured the three poles, Lucas killed the trolling motor and started the larger outboard for the trip back to the public docks. There was a slip that he rented from the county for a small monthly fee. He would secure the boat there, then he and the boys would take their catch home. Sometimes there was a Wildlife Management Officer at the public docks, there to inspect fishing licenses and to make sure that fishermen didn't go over their legal limits, but Lucas hadn't seen anyone from Wildlife Management in over two weeks. Still, he dutifully insisted that he and the boys wear their fishing licenses as required by law.

_Not much law left, either,_ Lucas says to himself bitterly. He was a Sergeant with the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department, but of late had been relegated to "on call" status due to the mass defections from not only the Sheriff, but Police, Fire, and even the State Police. Routine patrol had become virtually non-existent, with neighborhoods banding together to form their own neighborhood watch programs - in effect, armed vigilantes patrolling the streets. Owners of the few businesses that were still open were doing the same thing. Surprisingly, the gangs that infested the East Side of town had been very quiet - no doubt due in large part to the "shoot first" attitude of the neighborhood and business watch programs.

Lucas sighed. In spite of their recent inactivity, he knew it wouldn't last forever - especially considering the fact that competition for the few available remaining resources would become fierce once Shiva/Mjolnir struck. But, for now, he was still a cop - even though he hadn't been paid in several weeks. The local businesses had taken to paying the few remaining public servants with goods, such as food, potable bottled water, hydrogen, as well as whatever consumable or non-consumable goods would be useful. At first reluctant to take what he considered were gratuities, he gradually accepted what he realized was the only way the community could keep paying him. So, even though he spent the morning fishing with his sons, he was still armed and wearing a department issue commicuff, as well as having his phone with him, fully charged. And, as he approached the public docks, he realized that being armed right now was probably a good thing.

Lucas could see several young men loitering in the area near the public docks.  _East-Siders_ , he says to himself.  _Gang-bangers, from their clothes. A pretty far piece from their turf._  There were at least four that he could see, as his boat slowly made its way ever closer to the docks. As the docks were county property, Lucas finds himself wondering why these men were so far from home - the East Side was several miles away - and he doubted that any of them knew anything about piloting a boat, operating a boat motor, or fishing. It was then that he noticed the attention that they seemed to be paying to the creel, hanging off the side of the boat in the water.

_It can't be - it's too soon for this,_  Lucas says to himself.  _They can't be after food already?_  But somehow he knew that's exactly what this group was after. With deliveries to the local grocery stores and supermarkets getting more and more infrequent, it stood to reason that people who pretty much lived day to day wouldn't have stockpiles of food that they could turn to.

Pine Bluff was considered to be just out of Mega-Tsunami range, so not a lot of the residents had evacuated. With the nations' infrastructure rapidly falling apart, especially in the more rural parts of the county, services were already strained to the breaking point - to that point where people like East Side gang-bangers, used to turf wars, slinging dope, robbing, and killing each other to stay alive - now had to venture out to find new targets. The neighborhoods and businesses were doing a decent job of protecting themselves - so that left isolated areas like the public docks vulnerable to human predators.

_And no place for a kilometer up or down river where I can land this boat,_  Lucas says to himself. Very clever of these gang bangers to just wait for boats that went out early in the morning to return with their catch. Lucas felt his jaw tighten in anger.  _These scumbags see a man and his two sons - helpless victims,_ he says to himself grimly.  _Time for a little surprise._

The men standing on the dock looked very relaxed - they knew that their intended prey really had nowhere else to go except stay on the river - and if they tried to run, well, it would be easy enough for these men to shadow the boat up or down river to the next available landing site. Lucas could still only see four - and at least two of them were clutching handguns.

"Boys," he said softly, then, when he got no response, "Boys!" Both Luke and Sam jump a little then sheepishly turned to face their father. "Get your guns - but keep them out of sight. See the ones with the pistols?" Both boys nod. "Those are your targets." Lucas casually reaches behind him and loosens his own pistol in the holster at the small of his back.

"Luke, you take the one on the left. Sam, you take the one on the right. Don't hesitate. If I say fire, fire! Aim for center mass, just like we practiced. Got it?" Luke looked back at his father, eyes wide, and nods. Sam didn't say anything and kept staring straight ahead.

"Sam," Lucas says softly, but firmly. "Sam!"

"I hear you, Dad," Sam says. Lucas can see the boy's hands trembling as he edges forward and reaches down to clutch the shotgun laying near his feet. Lucas glances towards Luke and sees his older son with his hand wrapped around the pistol grip of the carbine. Lucas slowly pilots the boat towards the docks.

"Any luck?" One of the men holding a pistol calls out. Lucas examines him intently. He couldn't be over twenty.

"Some," Lucas replies evenly.

"Looks like you got enough to share," the man answers with a smirk. "So don't take all day gettin' here! We all hungry - so move your ass!" The man gestures with his pistol. Lucas decides that he's the one in charge.

Lucas slows the boat almost to an idle. "Listen, take the fish. Just don't hurt my boys and I!" he pleads, hoping he sounds convincing.

The leader buys it and laughs cruelly. "Well, now, that all depends - you may just have to fish for us every day, in that case!" His companions laugh at this, and Lucas knows what the joke is. These animals have no intention of letting them go. They know that the men in this boat won't just complacently fish for them every day, but rather would come back armed to the teeth. Lucas realizes that these men intend to rob and kill him and his sons - over a few fish. Quickly a plan forms in his mind.

Leaning forward, he says in almost a whisper, "When I throw the tie line - that's your signal - you shoot, and shoot to kill. Got it?" Both boys nod once, tightly, and Lucas sees Sam swallow once, his eyes wide.  _Good,_ he says to himself,  _he looks scared. Perfect._  The boat glides ever so slowly towards the slip, the men on the dock waiting impatiently.

"I...I'll need some help with the tie line," Lucas says haltingly. The leader's eyes narrow and he regards Lucas with suspicion.

"Why can't one of these assholes do it?" the leader says, indicating Luke and Sam.

"Boat'll be more stable if one of you takes the line," Lucas lies. "Don't want to capsize and lose the fish."

"Okay," the leader snaps, and waves one of the others forward to take the line. Lucas sees it's not the one with a gun in his hand. Lucas kills the motor, allowing the boat to drift toward the dock.

The designated line-man - or boy, as the case may be, as he doesn't look older than sixteen to Lucas - steps forward, a look of confusion on his face.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks.

"See that cleat? The metal thing on the dock?" Lucas asks. The boy looks down and nods. "Just wrap the line back and forth around that so the boat doesn't drift off. I'll fix it after I'm on the dock."

"Got it," the boy says. Just a couple of meters from the dock, Lucas stands up carefully, the momentum of the boat carrying them forward slowly. He's clutching a coil of rope in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the leader shift and begin to bring his gun up, then he sees movement from the other side as the other gunman does the same.

_Shit_ , he says to himself,  _this'll have to be perfect._ "Ready?" he calls out, and sees the boy nod. He senses rather than sees his own sons tense up. Lucas takes a deep breath and hurls the coil of rope towards the boy and sees the coil strike the boy in the chest. Lucas's hand darts to the small of his back, his fingers wrapping around the familiar feel of the pistol grip and he tugs the pistol free of the holster. He hears a curse, the sharp crack of a handgun firing, then a series of cracks accompanied by two loud booms of the shotgun.

Lucas keeps focused on his target - the boy fumbling with the rope. As he fights with the rope Lucas sees his hand reaching towards his waistband for a pistol protruding from the waist of his pants. Lucas finishes drawing his pistol, and with a smooth practiced motion, swings it up and aims center mass at the boy, the rope at his feet as he frees his own gun. Lucas taps the trigger twice, feeling his pistol buck in his hand and seeing two bright red flowers bloom on the boy's chest. He sees the boy slump lifelessly to the dock.

His ears ringing, Lucas looks around. He sees Luke trying to aim his carbine at something on the dock and realizes it's the fourth man, but Luke doesn't have a clear shot. Lucas sees the shotgun lying on the bottom of the boat, the action jammed open by a partially ejected shell, smoke still curling up from the breech and the barrel. He feels the boat shift and sees Sam leaping from the boat onto the dock, clutching a long handled boat hook. From the time Lucas threw the rope to now, not even ten seconds have passed.

"Sam!" Lucas shouts, but the boy doesn't even turn back, hitting the dock running and clutching the boat hook. Lucas realizes that his son is after the fourth man.

"Shit!" Lucas exclaims, climbing onto the dock. Glancing around quickly, he sees the leader, the boy with the rope, and the other gunman laying in rapidly spreading pools of blood. He sees his youngest son almost at the end of the dock chasing the fourth man, who stops suddenly, whirls around, and pulls a pistol from his waistband.

"Sam!" Lucas shouts, bringing his own pistol up, but without a clear shot as Sam is right in his line of fire. As the fourth man starts to bring his own pistol up, Sam whips the boat hook around by the handle like a baseball bat, the handle colliding with the fourth man's arms and knocking the pistol out of his hands. Lucas hears the man cry out in pain as Sam jabs him viciously in the chest with the butt of the boat hook, knocking the man back and sending him sprawling.

Sam leaps onto the man, spinning the boat hook around in his hands once again and raising it high over his head. The fourth man feebly puts his hands and arms out in an attempt to ward off the next blow.

"Sam! Don't!" Lucas yells, even as the fourth man is screaming, "No! No! Please don't!"

Lucas sees Sam hesitate for a split second, then bring the business end of the boat hook down violently against the fourth man's exposed throat.

Lucas can only watch, paralyzed, as his youngest son drives the makeshift spear deep into the man's throat, hearing a final agonized bubbling scream as the man arches his back, clutching at the handle of the boat hook, his blood visibly spurting from the wound.

Lucas finally stumbles forward, reaching his son and grabbing him by the shoulders. He pulls his son off the dying man and sees to his horror that he's drenched with blood. Sam, wild-eyed, stumbles back with his father, then, as if seeing what he had just done for the first time, drops to his hands and knees on the dock and vomits violently.

Lucas kneels by his youngest son, absently patting his back as Sam throws up. His attention is diverted by the sounds of someone else coughing and gagging, and he idly looks down the length of the dock to where the other three bodies lay, to see Luke leaning over the edge of the dock, throwing up into the still waters below. Lucas feels the haze leaving his brain and suddenly he, too, doesn't feel so good.

Swallowing heavily, he lurches to his feet and makes his way to Luke, now wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You okay?" Lucas asks. Luke just looks at him dully and nods. Lucas turns examines the three bodies. The leader is laying on his back, arms out flung, his eyes open and staring, a look of surprise on his face. Lucas can see four neat holes in the man's chest. He picks up the man's pistol, unloads it, and hands it to Luke. Next he examines the boy with the rope, laying on his side, eyes closed, two neat holes an inch apart in his chest. He takes the boy's gun and, repeating the process, also hands it to Luke. The last man is laying on his back, his chest and abdomen torn open by two close range shotgun blasts. His gun is nowhere to be seen.  _Probably in the water,_  Lucas says to himself.

Straightening up, Lucas walks back to his youngest son, now sitting on the dock, crying quietly. Not saying a word, Lucas sits next to the boy and hugs him close, the boy clutching at him as he continues to sob. Lucas realizes as he holds the boy that his commicuff is buzzing insistently.

Disengaging himself from Sam, Lucas taps the commicuff and brings it to his mouth.

"Pine Bluff Central, this is thirty-two x-ray four, go ahead."

"Four, Central. Report of shots fired vicinity public docks, over."

"Ten-four, Central. That was me. The situation is under control."

"Four, Central. Do you need back-up? Over."

"Negative, Central. Four coroner cases, though. Need to get the van out here. I'm at the public docks."

"Will advise coroner, Four. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Ten-four, Central. Some gang bangers tried to rob and murder us for our fish."

"Holy shit. I mean, roger that, Four. I'll advise thirty-two yankee one."

"Ten-four, Central. Thirty-two x-ray four, out."

Lucas beckons his oldest son over. "Yes, Dad?" the boy asks. Lucas hands him his truck keys.

"Luke, take your brother, the fish, and the guns home - even the guns we took off of them," Lucas says. "I gotta stay here and wait for the coroner van. I'll catch a ride home later. I have a report to write."

"Okay, Dad." Luke says. He turns to go, then turns back suddenly. "Dad?"

"Yes, Luke?" his father says tiredly.

"We - I mean, Sam and I - did we do okay today?" Luke asks hesitantly. Lucas stands up, walks over, and hugs his son. He feels another set of arms and sees Sam standing there, hugging them both.

"You two did just fine, boys." Lucas says. "Now go on home, okay?" The boys nod, and, gathering up their fish, the poles, and the guns, head back to the truck. A minute later, Lucas hears the truck start up and drive off.

Lucas carefully replaces his pistol in the holster, then pulls out his phone. He surveys the dock one last time and shakes his head sadly.

"Two weeks before that damn thing falls - and this shit's starting  _already_ ," he mutters to himself, then pulls his phone out to call his wife and let her know that he won't be home for a while.

**THE CABINET ROOM, THE WEST WING, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C. - 9:00 A.M., FRIDAY, JUNE 20TH, 2070 - TWO WEEKS TO SHIVA/MJOLNIR**

"Okay, let's get started," Janice York says, taking her seat at the table. "Dr. Hawthorne?"

Jack Hawthorne stands up. "Thank you, Madam President...ladies and gentlemen. Here's what we have as of six this morning." Jack taps his screen on his PADD and the view screen on the wall comes to life. Jack gestures towards the screen.

"First of all, Shiva has calved into no less than twenty pieces of significant size. By significant, I mean objects at least a kilometer across or larger. Dr. Mitchell, Dr. Roshenko, Mrs. Temple-smith, Miss Orr and I have had Shiva under observation on a daily basis for months. Our consensus is that our attempts to deflect Shiva/Mjolnir by using shock waves caused by the detonation of thermonuclear devices in their orbital path destabilized the comet to a degree sufficient to cause its break up."

"So it's broken up? That's a good thing, right?" The question comes from Vice President Alexander Cray. Jack turns to Cray.

"Yes and no, Mr. Vice President. It means that we are no longer facing an extinction level event." Jack paused as a wave of gasps and murmurs of relief swept over the room. "However," he continued, "All of these objects will still impact Earth." Jack points to the series of fuzzy objects on the screen. "Shiva has broken up much in the same way that Comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 did in 1994. Based on the data that we have, our best estimate is that the first impact will occur in the Bay of Bengal on July 4th. The first land impact should occur somewhere in the Middle East - Pakistan or possibly Iran - shortly after the Bay of Bengal Strike. The fragment strikes will continue -" Jack projects a world map on the screen and indicates impact zones with a laser pointer "- the Mediterranean, at least one in Europe, the Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico, at least one in the Southwestern United States, the Gulf of California, and the Pacific."

"What about Thor's Hammer, Dr. Hawthorne? Has it - what's the word you used - 'calved' also?" Janice York asked.

"Madam President, Thor's Hammer is a solid body, unlike Shiva. We anticipate that it will strike somewhere in the Central Atlantic." Jack replies. "Unlike Shoemaker-Levy 9, we anticipate that the strikes will be spaced fairly closely together. The time from the Bay of Bengal strike to the last Pacific strike should be a matter of a few hours, not days or weeks. In addition to the major strikes, we anticipate several dozen 'air-bursters' along roughly the same strike corridor."

"'Air-bursters?'" The Air Force Chief of Staff asks.

"Yes, General," Henry Mitchell replies as he stands up. "Smaller bodies that don't have sufficient density or mass to actually impact the Earth, but rather explode prior to impact. Good examples of these are the Tunguska event in Siberia in 1908 and the Chelyabinsk event in Russia in 2013. Please bear in mind that these objects can still cause enormous localized destruction, and can pack the same explosive power as a thermonuclear warhead."

"Along those lines, we can't forget about what's happening above us in orbit," Rear Admiral Quentin Mason says, standing up as Henry Mitchell takes his seat again. "There are literally billions of smaller fragments, ranging from particles of dust to pieces that are car-sized, that will sweep across Earth's orbit and cause incredible havoc to our satellites in orbit. We can count on having virtually all of our communications, weather, and GPS satellites heavily damaged, if not destroyed outright, by these pieces of comet. The only orbital platform that we will be able to protect is Clarke Station. A prototype electro-magnetic force field has been installed on the station that will be able to destroy smaller pieces and deflect larger, car-sized, objects. The down side to this is that the station will be virtually blind, deaf, and mute as long as the field is active. Once the threat is past, however, Clarke Station will be able to provide us observational data from orbit."

"Admiral, there was mention made before of our research stations on the Moon and Mars," Leigh Paylor, the Secretary of Defense, says as she stands up. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but neither of these bases is threatened by either Shiva or Mjolnir?"

"Correct, Madam Secretary," Mason says, nodding. "Both bases have been curtailing their science and exploration pursuits over the last few months in favor of preparing long term survival strategies. Shackleton on the Moon, Lowell on Mars, and Clarke Station have all been making preparations to sustain themselves on an indefinite basis. It may not be very comfortable for them, but the personnel at all three facilities are aware that it will be at least several years before retrieval efforts can be made."

"Thank you, Admiral. Madam President, would you like the global threat assessment now, or at another time?" Secretary Paylor asks.

"Now is fine, Leigh - go ahead," Janice York says quietly, rubbing her eyes briefly before returning her attention to the briefing.

"Thank you, Madam President. The following is classified Top Secret and is accurate as of three hours ago. Currently, our intelligence indicates that several countries are almost sure to initiate hostilities, up to and including limited nuclear exchanges, concurrent with the anticipated comet and asteroid strikes on July 4th. We anticipate strikes from North Korea against South Korea, Japan and the states of Hawaii and Alaska; Russia against China in the disputed border areas; India against Pakistan; and finally, Iran against Israel. This last has the potential to also draw in Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, and Egypt."

"Any luck resolving any of these conflicts through diplomatic means?" Jan asks tiredly.

"Madam President, if I may?" Phillip Abernathy, Janice York's Secretary of State, stands up. "We've been working night and day with the United Nations, trying to resolve these disputes prior to The - prior to July 4th. South Korea is, shall we say, miffed at our sudden troop withdrawal and is just about as stubborn as North Korea is. Russia and China both want us to side against the other, as do India and Pakistan. Israel has made it quite clear that they intend for us to abide by our treaty obligations should they be attacked." He pauses for a moment, pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs his eyes, and continues. "I'm afraid that diplomacy doesn't stand a chance against a comet and an asteroid, Madam President."

Janice York's eyes narrowed in anger. "Alright. Leigh, Phil...here's my response to this lunacy. Inform Pyongyang that any - and I mean ANY - act of aggression towards the United States by North Korea will be met by an immediate, devastating strike on Pyongyang. It may be symbolic - Pyongyang may not even exist any more by that point - but make it clear. If North Korea attacks, we nuke Pyongyang. Got it?"

"Yes, Madam President," both Leigh Paylor and Phil Abernathy say, almost in unison.

"Thank you," Jan says. "General Cresta?"

"Thank you, Madam President." The Secretary for Homeland Security stands up. "Item number one. Our FEMA camps - sorry, Brad, I know that's your field -" Cresta says to the FEMA director, Brad Cartwright, who simply nods without diverting attention from the PADD he was keying "- Anyway, the FEMA camps are all at one hundred percent capacity or better. Voluntary evacuations from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Gulf coasts continue. On that note, Madam President, we simply don't have the manpower or resources to conduct a forced, mandatory evacuation. The folks living in the Tsunami zones either leave on their own, or they don't." At this news Jan simply looks up and nods.

"Item number two," Paul Cresta continues. "Infrastructure protection. We've decentralized the National Grain and Petroleum Reserves to the greatest extent possible. There's still a little work to do on that but we are probably at ninety five percent. Our biggest concern right now is losing communications of all types. As was stated earlier, the only orbital platform that we'll have left is Clarke Station, and even then our communications will be limited to the times it's orbiting over the United States. Cellular phone service will cease to exist, landline service will most likely be local at best and will be limited to physical phone wires and fiber optics. Radio communications will be strictly line of sight. Surface transportation will be extremely limited as well. We can expect to lose roads, bridges, dams, and railway tracks from any combination of seismic, volcanic, and meteorological activity. Forget water transport for the foreseeable future. Aircraft will be most certainly grounded for several weeks following the impacts, and after that flights will still be limited by severe weather phenomena. Doctors Malarkey, Dr. Donner, do you have anything you'd like to add?"

David and Blair Malarkey, along with Frank Donner, stand up. "We haven't changed our stance, weather wise, from earlier briefings," David Malarkey begins. "Unfortunately, we'll have to wait for the actual impacts themselves and observations from Clarke Station before we'll be able to make even the most rudimentary forecasts. But, we can still expect several dozen massive hurricanes world-wide, tornados, and several weeks or even months of torrential rain. Frank, have you anything to add?"

Frank Donner steps forward. Like the Malarkey's, he was blonde and fair skinned, although much stockier in build.

"Geologic activity is much harder to predict than the weather," Frank begins. "So much depends on the exact location of each strike, as well as the size and speed of the impactor. There are four areas of prime concern in the continental United States, geologically speaking - The New Madrid Fault, Yellowstone, the San Andreas Fault, and the Juan de Fuca subduction zone. Impacts on or near any single one of these features could, in theory, trigger earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, or, in the case of Yellowstone, a volcanic super-eruption. If the latter occurs, expect everything East of Wyoming to be totally uninhabitable for years, if not decades, afterwards." Frank paused as a series of shocked gasps ripple through the room.

"Now for the good news," Frank continues, "We don't expect an impact anywhere near Yellowstone. The Pacific Coast, however, will probably not be as lucky. General, I'm through." Frank sits back down as Paul Cresta begins to speak again.

"Thank you, Dr. Donner. Item number three - security. Madam President, executing deserters did greatly slow down the exodus from our services - temporarily. We are seeing a spike forming, however - and we just don't have the manpower to track them down this time. Seems that these Runners are more afraid of the comet than they are of you. We're also getting reports of defections from police, paramedic, and fire services as well. We've received reports of looting and rioting incidents rising over the last few weeks. Madam President, the country is quickly starting to spiral towards anarchy."

Janice York regards Paul Cresta with tired eyes.  _I'm so exhausted. Why I ever though being President was a good idea, I'll never know_! She says to herself. "You have suggestions, General?" she asks.

"I do, Madam President. Concentrate our available resources - military, government, vital public service - with first priority going to Colorado Springs and Cheyenne Mountain, and second priority towards the FEMA camps and our disbursement centers for the National Grain and Petroleum Reserves - and leave the rest of the country to do the best that they can. I know you don't like this plan, Madam President -" Paul says quickly, seeing the objections rising up in his President "- but from where both myself and Defense sit, it's the only viable option right now. Once the worst is past and our priority areas are under control, we can work to re-establish controls one region at a time."

"No - of course, you're right, Paul." Jan turns and beckons to two people seated close behind her. "Dan, you and Amanda work with General Cresta, Mr. Cartwright, and Secretary Paylor on the details of this concentration of resources." Dan Crane and Amanda Dalton, Chief of Staff and Deputy Chief of Staff to the President, nod silently, then rise and gather up the FEMA director, along with the Homeland Security and Defense Secretaries, and disappear into a side room.

"Alright, does anyone have anything else?" Jan asks.

"Just one thing, Madam President." A large, well dressed man rises from the area where the 'Brain Trust' was sitting. "Morgan Boggs, Madam President. I'm the 'Brain Trust' shrink. General Cresta asked me to prepare a preliminary psychological assessment."

Janice slumps back in her chair, obviously tired, but waves him on. "Of course, Doctor. Please continue."

"Thank you, Madam President. I can give you a lot of psychological double talk on how the average citizen will react - but in the end it will boil down to two classes of people - the haves and the have nots. The haves are those that carefully prepared for this event - stockpiling food, water, and consumables, banding with their neighbors, and doing everything humanly possible to stave off disaster. The have nots are those that do little or nothing to prepare and expect the government to come to their aid once the comet and asteroid strike. When such aid is not forthcoming - and, from this briefing today, it won't be for quite some time - these people too will band together - to take what they need from the haves. Madam President, what you'll be looking at in the weeks and months following July 4th are dozens, even hundreds, of little wars popping up all over what remains of the United States. You can expect lawlessness, brigandry...even cannibalism." At the mention of cannibalism there was a horrified gasp from the people assembled in the Cabinet Room. Morgan Boggs pauses until the minor furor dies down.

"Yes, Madam President - cannibalism. The have nots will probably have, at best, a two day supply of food that they can rely on. And this brigandry is starting already." Boggs pauses and picks up his PADD and taps the screen a few times.

"I have here a report that General Cresta shared with me just a short time ago. It seems that, just a few hours ago, there was a shoot-out in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, between four known gang members and a Sergeant from the Jefferson County, Arkansas, Sheriff's Department. It seems that the Sergeant was fishing the Arkansas River with his two sons when they were accosted while attempting to dock their boat. All four gang members were killed. The Sergeant and his two sons were not injured physically. The apparent target of this robbery attempt was a creel containing fifteen rainbow trout."

There is dead silence in the Cabinet Room for long seconds, then Janice York says, "Thank you, Dr. Boggs. Do you have anything else?" Boggs shakes his head. "Anyone else?" Silence. "Alright, then. We have work to do. Thanks for coming, everyone." Janice turns to pick up her PADD as the assembled group breaks up to leave. She suddenly becomes aware of Amanda Dalton standing behind her.

"Madam President, I'm sorry, but Mr. Crane asked me to come out and remind you that you have a meeting in -" she consults her watch -" fifteen minutes with Congressman Thread and Senator Everdeen."

Janice sighs heavily. "Thanks, Amanda. Any word on exactly what the Speaker of the House and the Senate Minority Leader wish to discuss with me?"

"No, ma'am - sorry. I can check with Mr. Crane if you like -" Janice puts out her hand.

"Never mind, Amanda. Not necessary. Thanks again." Amanda turns and goes back to the meeting she had been in with her immediate boss, the Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security, and the FEMA Director. Janice sighs and turns to leave the Cabinet Room as her personal secretary falls in next to her, schedule in hand.

_The end of the world is coming in two weeks, and I still have to play politics with assholes_ , she says to herself.

**JUST OUTSIDE FALCON, COLORADO - NOON, FRIDAY, JUNE 20TH, 2070 - TWO WEEKS TO SHIVA/MJOLNIR**

The Sheriff's Patrol Car sits on the side of the road, lights flashing, as the young Deputy Sheriff speaks to the large, deeply tanned man standing by the front bumper of the car. In the background, a large van with the words 'EL PASO COUNTY CORONER' painted on the side sits, rear doors open, as two other deputies wheel a covered gurney to the van and begin to load it in the back. An ambulance sitting nearby suddenly activates its emergency lights and siren and speeds off in the direction of Colorado Springs.

"Mr. Flickerman? May I see your gun, sir?" the young deputy asks respectfully. Stuart Flickerman wordlessly pulls his pistol from his shoulder holster, slides the magazine out, and works the slide, ejecting the cartridge. He hands the pistol and magazine over to the deputy, then bends down and retrieves the cartridge, which he then hands to the deputy.

The deputy thanks him and then says, "Normally, we'd book the gun and ammo in as evidence, even though this is without a doubt a self defense shooting. But, times being what they are and all, my Sergeant just told me to get the make, model, serial number and caliber for the report." Stuart nods wordlessly and stares at the Coroner van as the back doors slam shut. A moment later, the van starts up and drives off in the same direction as the ambulance.

An older deputy approaches Stuart. "You okay, Stu?" he asks, concern in his voice.

"Yeah," Stu answers simply, then, "Dumb shit didn't give me any choice. He cut Connor pretty bad - then came at me. Even after I'd drawn on him he still kept coming at me." Stu's voice trembles a bit as he tells the story. "Son of a bitch, I didn't want to do it!" he suddenly yells, causing the young deputy filling out paperwork to jump in alarm.

The older deputy puts his hand on Stu's shoulder. "I know you didn't," he says gently. "Some of these refugees - well, they don't think straight. Sure wish we could figure out a way to keep 'em in their camps."

"Everyone's scared," Stu whispers. "When can I go in to see my boy?"

"They just took him to the hospital, Stu. Once we get done here you can head to the Springs and see him. Connor's a tough kid, Stu - he'll be okay."

"He's only sixteen. Shit." Stu says miserably. "Damn. I can't leave my place. Not Trudy and I both. We can't leave Tamara here alone." Just then both men hear the high pitched whine of a pair of All Terrain Vehicle motors approaching. They turn and see two men approaching, rifles slung across their backs, as they slow to a stop.

"Stu! What the hell happened? We heard shots - but we didn't get a signal from you!" the older of the two men, a florid faced man with sandy blonde hair, says.

"Easy, Elliott. We had some trouble here. It's all over." Stu says tiredly. Quickly he relays to the two men what had happened.

"Who's the surgeon?" Elliott demands. Stu looks at him and laughs bitterly.

"I've got no friggin' clue, 'Doc' Heavensbee," he says with gentle sarcasm. "I'm sure Connor's gonna be okay, though."

"We're all done here," the young deputy says, handing Stu his pistol and magazine. "Sir, we'll be in touch if we need anything else." Stu nods and mumbles his thanks. The older deputy comes over and puts his hand on Stu's shoulder.

"It's gonna be okay, Stu. Listen, you got Elliott and Bobby here - why don't you run into the Springs and see Connor? Guys, can you watch Stu's place - and Tamara - for a few hours?"

"Of course," says Elliott. "Sure thing," says Bobby.

"Okay," Stu says. "Thanks, guys." Together the three men head to Stu's compound, after thanking the two deputies still standing by their car.

"Okay, we're done here," the older deputy says, and turns to get into the patrol car. The younger deputy slides behind the wheel, and quickly checks the screen of the cars data terminal.

"Shit. Listen to this." he says. "A Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Sheriff's Sergeant, and his two sons, were involved in a shoot out this morning on the Arkansas River with four gang bangers - over a creel full of trout! All four gang bangers dead. The Sergeant and his kids were uninjured."

The older deputy laughs humorlessly. "Four dead in Pine Bluff over some fish - one dead in Falcon, Colorado, over potatoes and carrots."

The two deputies raise their hands and wave as they see Stu and Trudy Flickerman drive by them on the way to the hospital to see their son.

"Think the kid's gonna be okay?" the younger deputy asks.

"Connor? Yeah. Some defensive wounds on his hands, superficial stab wounds in his shoulder and upper chest. I wouldn't be surprised if the kid's home by morning." the older deputy replies. "Start 'er up. Let's roll. You got a report to write."

As the car pulls away, the older deputy glances behind him one last time. "Two weeks to go and people are already goin' fuckin' crazy."


	6. APOCALYPSE SOON

**CHAPTER 6 - APOCALYPSE SOON**

**CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - BASE CAMP MURPHY, COMPANY B, 1ST BATTALION, 15TH INFANTRY REGIMENT, 3RD MECHANIZED INFANTRY DIVISION - 8:30 P.M., MONDAY, JUNE 30TH, 2070**

**FOUR DAYS TO SHIVA/MJOLNIR**

Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise sat on a small folding chair, squinting at the screen of the PADD she had balanced on her leg, tapping at the virtual keyboard display as she laboriously completed her squad's daily status summary. A quick glance at her watch showed her that she still had 30 minutes to complete her report and get it to her Platoon Sergeant.

"Freakin' worlds' comin' to an end in four days, and we  _still_  have to file reports," she mutters under her breath, consulting her notepad for her daily hydrogen consumption figures, then transferring that information to her report. A lantern hung from the center pole of the tent, casting a soft yellow light down on Jamie. She glanced over at the empty cot in the tent. Zack Clark, her Assistant Squad Leader, was still in the hospital, recovering from an attack by refugees outside the Manitou Springs FEMA Camp three days before.

Jamie rubbed her eyes, thinking back to the incident. They had found the small group of refugees about a kilometer outside the camp, in clear violation of the latest set of curfew restrictions. Zack had dismounted, unarmed, to speak with the group and tell them that they needed to return to their camp. The vast majority of refugees, confronted with an armed Infantry squad and a Stryker combat vehicle, would comply without incident, but  _this_  group decided that they had been pushed around by the government as much as they were willing to take.

Jamie quickly called for backup from the El Paso County Sheriff's Department as she saw the argument between Zack and the group escalate. Just as she was spinning her turret towards the refugees and ordering the dismount element out to assist Zack, she watched in horror as one of the men pulled out a short handled club and swung it viciously at Zack's head.

Zack went down immediately, and the group set on him, pummeling him with whatever they could get their hands on. Zack immediately curled into a ball as Jamie, acting on instinct, quickly worked the charging handle of the big fifty caliber machine gun and sent a warning burst into the ground directly behind the refugees.

Everybody, including her dismount team, jerked in surprise as the huge machine gun thundered out the burst. Keying the public address system mounted in her combat vehicle, she ordered the refugees to drop their weapons and to lay face down on the ground. She could have saved that last part - every single refugee was face down, hands over their heads, from the single machine gun burst.

A few minutes later, the Sheriff's Patrol Car pulled up to the scene. Fortunately, Zack had been wearing full body armor so that helped cushion the effect of the blows on his body, but he had taken several direct blows to his helmet. Against his protests, Jamie called for medevac, and in a matter of minutes a single engine medevac hoverplane was landing and collecting Zack. The El Paso County Sheriff's deputies decided, after consulting with both Zack and Jamie, to take the man that struck the first blow into custody. The other refugees were escorted back to their camp under the watchful eye of Jamie Wise, as well as her dismount team.

Zack had suffered a concussion, as well as bruises and lacerations on his face, chest, back and arms. Jamie had gone to see him earlier in the evening and had been happy to hear that he was being released to light duty the next morning.

"Pain in the ass doin' these dailies without your help, Zack," she says softly as she finishes entering the last of the data. Then, praying that everything was correct, she saves the report and hits the "Send" button, grinning when the confirmation of receipt of her message flashes on the screen.

That task done, she tosses the PADD onto her cot and grabs up her toilet kit and towel. Time for a shower, and maybe even a beer or two at the rec tent. However, as she steps outside her tent, towel draped around her neck, she's stopped by a figure striding quickly across the compound, calling her name. Jamie squints at the approaching figure, then straightens up involuntarily when she sees the uniform of an Air Force Security Forces Captain.

"Staff Sergeant Wise?" A feminine voice called out again. Jamie examined the stranger. The Captain was of medium height and, as far as Jamie could tell through the bulky combat uniform, had an athletic build. She was wearing the patch of the Cheyenne Complex Security Forces. As far as Jamie could remember, she had never met this Captain before.

"Yes, ma'am?" Jamie replied, assuming a respectful posture - not quite the position of attention, but not completely relaxed, either.

"Oh, good. Took me a while to track you down." Jamie's eyes widen a bit when she spots the strangers name tag above the right uniform pocket. "Hope I'm not keeping you from anything."

"Just a shower and a beer, ma'am," Jamie replied truthfully. The Captain laughed - a pleasant sound - at Jamie's candor.

"This won't take long, I promise. Is there someplace we can talk?" The Captain asked. Jamie indicated her tent with her hand, and followed the Captain inside. Once in the tent, Jamie pulled the door flaps shut and gestured towards Zack's empty cot, then sat on her own cot once the Captain sat down.

"I would have come earlier, but it's been insane in the mountain, what with the relocation of all Federal government services to the Cheyenne Complex." The stranger says. She sticks out her hand. "I'm Susanna Snow."

Jamie clasps Captain Snow's hand without hesitation. "I know. A pleasure, Captain." She says guardedly.

Susanna Snow laughs lightly as the two women shake hands briefly. "That's probably not what's really going through your mind, Sergeant - but that's okay."

"I can pretty much guess, Captain," Jamie replies.

"Where are you from, Sergeant?" Susanna asks suddenly.

"Dalton, Georgia, ma'am," Jamie answers in surprise. Susanna Snow nods thoughtfully.

"I thought I picked up a Georgia accent. I'm from Pennsylvania, myself. Anyway, that's not why I'm hear." Susanna sits up a little straighter on the cot. "I need to talk to you about my brother."

"I thought so, Captain," Jamie says carefully.

"I don't condone what he did," Susanna says. "I graduated from the Air Force Academy - just up the road from here, in fact - six years ago. I tend to take that Duty, Honor, Country shit pretty seriously."

Jamie grins at the bluntness of the officer sitting across from her. "So do I, Captain. But I don't think Runner does."

"Runner? Is that what you call him?" Susanna says with a smile.

"Runner, Snowflake, Snowball, and, if he really pisses me off - Shithead." Jamie found herself returning the other woman's smile and decided that she liked her.

"Sergeant, I could tell that, once you knew who I was, that you expected me to maybe ask for some special consideration for Ricky. I want you to know that that's the farthest thing from my mind. In fact, I really hope that you ride his ass constantly." Susanna looks at Jamie thoughtfully. "You know, you look  _nothing_  like what Ricky described."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, Captain," Jamie says.

"Let's just say I had visions of a fire breather, standing two meters tall, grizzled hair, with fangs dripping blood." Susanna says with a laugh. Her laugh was infectious and Jamie finds herself joining in.

"Actually, he did describe you as 'one tough bitch,'" Susanna went on. "And I think that's exactly what he needs right now. Sergeant, my family is - well, let's say that we've always been pretty well off. My older sister is married to a pretty influential Senator -" at this Jamie nods "- and my younger brother was spoiled rotten by our parents. I still can't figure out for the life of me why he decided to join the Army! He's not exactly what I would call 'ideal soldier material.'"

"No, ma'am, that he ain't," Jamie agrees.

"I was the middle child," Susanna says, "So I had to work hard for everything I got. Oh, hell, call me stubborn, but I was damned if I was gonna have everything just handed to me! So I got the appointment to the Academy and here I am now."

"So, what is it you want from me, Captain?" Jamie asks cautiously.

"Just keep doing what you're doing. I know my brother, and I'm sure that he'll try to use our older sister to run interference for him. Here's my number -" Susanna hands Jamie her business card with several phone numbers written on the back "- and I want you to call me if you suddenly start getting orders or directives regarding my brother that indicate that he may be pulling some political strings someplace."

Jamie looks at the card in surprise. "Thank you, ma'am," is all she can think to say.

Susanna stands up. "Okay, I've wasted enough of your evening. I need to head back to the complex anyway." She sticks her hand out. "It's been a real pleasure meeting you - Jamie."

Jamie takes Captain Snow's hand and shakes it firmly. "Likewise, Captain," she says with a grin.

"Susanna," Captain Snow says quietly. "At least in private, like this. I think that military discipline and tradition won't shatter completely if we use our first names - especially considering that we both have the same cross to bear, and his name is Richard Snow."

"Okay - Susanna," Jamie says with another grin. The two women step outside the tent. Susanna glances up at the comet, now dominating the night sky completely. Susanna sets her cap on her head, and, as she tucks a few stray strands of hair under her cap, Jamie notices for the first time that her hair is streaked with gray, in stark contrast to Susanna's otherwise dark hair.

Susanna notices Jamie intently examining her and laughs. "You noticed my racing stripes?"

Embarrassed, Jamie just nods. "Oh, don't worry about it. Believe me, I'm really only twenty-eight years old. Going prematurely gray seems to be a Snow family trait. You wouldn't know it from looking at my sister Charlotte - vain as she is, she's been coloring her hair for years - but if Ricky and I live through this -" she indicates the comet hovering overhead "- our hair will be completely white by the time we're forty." Susanna turns to go.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening - and remember to call if you need to." She says as she disappears into the darkness.

Jamie sighs heavily, ducks into her tent, and emerges with her toilet kit and towel. As she walks towards the showers, she glances upwards several times at Shiva, seemingly bearing down straight towards her.

_That beer's gonna taste good tonight_ , she says to herself.

**THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C. - 11:00 A.M., TUESDAY, JULY 1ST, 2070 - THREE DAYS TO SHIVA/MJOLNIR**

"My fellow Americans. In light of the recent increase of incidents involving civil disobedience, rioting, looting, and general mayhem which has been sweeping across our great nation, it was with great reluctance that I signed Presidential Executive Order Number 2070-057 just three hours ago." Janice York pauses, looking directly into the cameras facing her desk.  _Dear Lord, I'm so tired. I hope history will be able to forgive me,_ she says to herself before continuing.

"Please know and understand that I signed this order with enormous reluctance. Only the pre-emptive dispersal of the Senate and House of Representatives, along with the unique and immediate threat that is inexorably approaching our planet, have motivated me, as your President, to take such drastic measures as you are about to hear. I will now read to you each measure included in this Executive Order. Please bear in mind that each of these measures is, until the impending crisis has passed and until our way of life, as we now know it, can return to normal - each of these measures are to be considered law, and will be enforced." Janice pauses again, trying without success to quell the trembling in her hands as she stares at the teleprompter.

"One. Martial law is declared effective immediately. The National Guard and Reserve is hereby federalized. All local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies will cooperate fully with local military authorities. Military authority takes precedence over all local aw enforcement jurisdiction."

"Two. A national sundown to sunrise curfew is in effect immediately. Anyone caught in violation of curfew without possessing a valid curfew pass, issued by the local military authority, will be arrested immediately and will remain in custody of the local military authority pending an appearance in front of a tribunal."

"Three. Until further notice, all criminal judicial matters will be referred to the local military authority. Military tribunals will be convened to hear criminal matters on an as needed basis. Local, state, and federal Criminal and Civil Courts, to include State Supreme Courts and the United States Supreme Court, are suspended for the duration of the crisis."

"Four. In cooperation with the Federal Communications Commission, effective immediately all commercial and non-government radio and television transmissions are prohibited for the duration of the crisis. This does not include HAM or Citizen's Band radio's already licensed by the FCC. All commercial radio and television stations will be used solely for the transmission of necessary information that relates to the impending crisis and our recovery."

"Five. Effective immediately, all non-government travel by powered means, to include motorcycle or motor-driven cycle, all terrain vehicles of all types, car, bus, train, aircraft, or watercraft, is prohibited for the duration of the crisis. This restriction does not include transportation powered by human, animal, or wind."

"Six. The Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms will be subject to interpretation by the local military command authority. Military commanders have already been advised to use a great deal of leeway when enforcing this provision. We understand that there are many areas where an armed citizenry is not only desirable, but essential to the survival and well-being of the residents of that community. However, local military authorities may, under their own authority, confiscate weapons and ammunition if extraordinary circumstances arise."

"Seven. Commerce of consumable items, such as food, potable water, fuels of all kinds, batteries and other energy storage devices, is suspended for the duration of the crisis. Commercial businesses such as supermarkets, grocery stores, fuel stations, hardware stores, convenience stores, and general merchandise stores are directed to surrender their inventory to the local military authority. The local military authority will have the responsibility for the disbursement and rationing of all consumable items."

"Eight. Hoarding of essential consumable goods, such as food, potable water, and fuels of all kind,  _already not in private possession_ , is prohibited effective immediately. Consumables already in private possession are to be considered private property and are not - and I say this again -  _are not_  subject to seizure by local military authority. It is not the intent of this administration to punish those persons or organizations that demonstrated prudence and foresight in preparing for this crisis. However, the local military authority may take into account existing private caches of consumable goods when preparing rationing plans. Persons caught hoarding essential consumable goods after today may be punished as the local military authority deems fit."

"Nine. For the duration of this crisis, the local military authority may require able bodied private citizens to participate and assist with public works that, when completed, will be of benefit to the community at large. These public works include, but are not limited to: construction and repair of roads, bridges, dams, railway rights-of-way, and airfields; planting, tending, and harvesting crops, to include livestock of all kinds; mining of essential minerals; harvesting timber; construction, maintenance, repair, and operation of power generation equipment; and many other tasks too numerous to list here."

Janice pauses and takes a deep breath before reading the final measure. "Ten. The local military authority has been granted permission to shoot looters on sight. Private citizens are encouraged to report all discoveries of stockpiles or caches of property to the local military authority for proper disposition."

"My fellow Americans, it is my sincere desire that these measures are temporary at best, and rest assured, this Executive Order will be rescinded by the National Command Authority as quickly as possible. Please stay tuned following my address for a listing of telephone numbers and locations of the nearest local military authority and FEMA office. Thank you, God bless, and good luck to each and every one of you."

Janice kept focused on the camera until she saw the red light wink out and heard the director say, "Okay, Madam President - you're off."

Janice allows herself to slump back in her chair as Dan Crane, her Chief of Staff, and Amanda Dalton, his Deputy, step to her desk.

Janice eyes the pair wanly. "Did you hear that sound?" she asks.

Dan and Amanda look at each other in confusion before turning back to their Commander in Chief. "Uhh, I'm sorry, Madam President - what sound?" Dan asks.

"Why, the sound of me putting the Constitution of the United States through a paper shredder, Dan!" Janice replies tiredly.

"Madam President, you aren't the first Chief Executive to be forced to -" Amanda Dalton begins.

Janice waves her hand dismissively at Amanda. "I know, I know, Amanda - 'good of the nation, only temporary, desperate times call for desperate measures, yada yada yada.' It still hurts when you have to do it." Janice pulls herself to her feet and heads towards the Oval Office door, gesturing for her two primary assistants to follow her.

Dan and Amanda fall in step with Janice as they head quickly to her private office. Once inside, Janice sits and invites Dan and Amanda to take seats.

"Bring me up to date on the government relocation," she says, while tapping on a PADD in front of her.

"The Legislative and Judicial branches have all dispersed to their home states whenever possible - with the exceptions, of course, of those Pacific Coast, Gulf Coast, and Atlantic Seaboard states that are threatened by mega-tsunamis. The Executive branch, to include primary cabinet members and the Joint Chiefs, as well as the Vice President, are in place at Cheyenne Mountain. Assistant Secretaries, Undersecretaries, and other staffers have followed the same dispersal plan as I've just stated for Legislative and Judicial. In effect, Madam President, the only government that remains in D.C. is you." Amanda glances up from her PADD as she finishes reciting her information.

Janice nods thoughtfully. "And how quickly can the White House be evacuated?"

"Marine One will be standing by on the South Lawn, Madam President," Dan Crane replies. "We can be wheels up in less than two minutes. The same with Air Force One at Andrews. Still, I would not recommend loitering any longer than necessary."

Janice regards her two assistants thoughtfully.  _Time to drop one last bombshell on them_ , she says to herself.

"I want you two at Cheyenne Mountain by Thursday at the latest," Janice says firmly, anticipating the opposition that she would get from her two trusted staffers. She unlocks a drawer in her desk, opens the drawer, and removes a PADD. She hands the PADD to Dan, who takes it with a look of confusion on his face.

"And when will you be leaving D.C., Madam President?" Dan asks evenly.

Janice takes a deep breath and pauses before answering, "I'm not."

"But - but - you  _can't_  stay here! D.C. is gonna get flattened! Madam President...Jan...I must insist that you evacuate -" Dan stammers, a look of shock on his face. Calmly, Jan raises her hand to silence him. Red-faced, Dan finally sputters to an uneasy silence. Next to him, Amanda Dalton is speechless - numb with shock at what she has just heard.

"On that PADD is everything needed, according to the Chief Justice, to transfer the office of the President and the National Command Authority to Vice President Cray. In a nutshell, he is to assume the office of President once all communication is severed between Cheyenne Mountain and the White House. I've already spoken with him so he's aware of it. The Chief Justice has already re-located to Cheyenne Mountain and will administer the oath immediately upon confirmation that all communication links have been severed." Jan regards her two primary assistants calmly.  _I wish there were some other way to do this,_  she says to herself.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" Amanda sobs out, unable to control her emotions any more.

"Amanda - Dan. Both of you, please listen to me." Jan feels her own tears building as she speaks. "I've dedicated my entire adult life to public service, and I was proud - damned proud - when I was elected to the Presidency. Now, what I do I do for purely selfish reasons. I don't want to have to live with being the President that lost our country."

"Madam President - Jan - with all due respect, that's total horseshit!" Dan snaps. "You're not 'losing' anything! You've done everything humanly possible to preserve this country! You aren't sitting idly by, wringing your hands and just waiting for that - that thing to fall! And this country will need you once things return to normal!"

"And when will that be, Dan?" Jan asks calmly. "You heard the Brain Trust predictions. Total global weather disruption for two to five years after the impacts. Do you know what that means? Impact Winter, that's what that means! Virtually no Spring, Summer or Fall for two to five years after impact! Do you have any idea how many survivors will starve? Do you? No growing seasons to speak of for  _years_! People are gonna go to war, right here in the United States - for food! Rice wars, potato wars, corn wars, wheat wars!" Janice was on the verge of hyperventilating and suddenly went silent except for her labored breathing.

"But someone - you - need to be there to start to rebuild -" Amanda began gently. Dan looks at his Deputy in alarm.  _The boss is losing it_ , he says to himself.

"Don't either of you understand?  _There won't be anything left to rebuild!_  All that'll be left is the Cheyenne Mountain complex - that is, of course, if it doesn't get hit! That, and whatever's left in the rest of what used to be the United States, once everyone stops killing each other over Spam and canned beans!" Janice pauses and looks at Dan and Amanda sadly. "I had this epiphany a while back. Listening to the Brain Trust project tsunami damage, weather damage, impact damage, infrastructure collapse - look, whatever will be left five years from now, it won't be the United States of America."

"You don't really believe that," Dan says in a flat voice. Janice stands up from behind her desk, and walks around to the front to stand with her two assistants.

"Oh, but I do, Dan," Jan says quietly. "There will be survivors, and eventually we will be able to start to plant and harvest crops. But that will be years from now. Am I being selfish? Yes, I am. Cray - Alex Cray is a good man. Steady. No flash, but that's not what we will need. I'm sure he will find your help invaluable. Please. Don't fight me on this." Janice puts an arm around Dan and Amanda's shoulders. "Us three, we've been through a lot together. You need to be there to help Cray and the others build this New America."

Janice suddenly hugs first Dan, then Amanda. "I love both of you. I wanted you both to know that. Now go on. I have work to do and I know you have work to do."

Deflated, Dan and Amanda both simply mutter, "Yes, Madam President," before walking out of the room.

Janice walks over to the opened door and spots her secretary, looking back at her, a puzzled expression on her face. Jan smiles at the older woman fondly.

"Barb, can you do me a favor?" Jan asks suddenly.

"Of course, Madam President," her secretary answers immediately.

"Can you - can you call Henri Liege in Mont-Laurier, Quebec? I - I would like very much to talk to my children," Jan says quietly.

Barb smiles at her boss fondly. "At once, Madam President. I'll buzz you once I've completed the call."

"Thank you," Janice says, as she closes her office door.

**BETHEL PARK, PENNSYLVANIA - 6:30 P.M., WEDNESDAY, JULY 2ND, 2070 - TWO DAYS TO SHIVA/MJOLNIR**

The woman and her teenaged male companion climb awkwardly from the back of the military transport truck, then thank the soldiers riding in the back of the transport as their belongings are handed down to them. A young soldier comes around from the front of the vehicle and stands awkwardly as the couple retrieve their bags. The woman turns toward the soldier, a questioning look in her eyes.

"Sergeant, correct me if I'm wrong, but this looks nothing like Cleveland." The woman says gently.

"I - I'm sorry, ma'am. My lieutenant just got the word himself. Our unit's been diverted. We aren't headed anywhere near Cleveland now." The sergeant looked truly apologetic.

"So...what happens now?" The woman asks brightly, trying to mask the dread that she was feeling.

"I was told there's a refugee center a couple blocks that way - maybe they can help. I'm really sorry, ma'am!" The sergeant says. Suddenly the transport's horn honks twice, loudly, and a voice from the front of the vehicle calls out, "Mount up! Rolling in one minute!"

The sergeant glances over his shoulder, then back at the woman and boy. "That's me, ma'am - I gotta go. Good luck!" he calls out, sprinting for the front of the truck.

"Thanks for the lift!" the woman calls out, stepping onto the sidewalk as the truck starts to roll. She turns and looks at the boy next to her.

"Guess we find that refugee center," she says brightly. The boy only shakes his head, his face dark with anger.

"How can they just  _leave_  us here? It's not right!," the boy exclaims. "I wish Dad were here!"

The woman sighs. "You and me both, kiddo. Come on." She extends the handle on the large suitcase and begins to drag it on its rollers down the sidewalk. The boy, after a moments' hesitation, grabs his own bag and follows suit.

The woman, athletic, dark-haired, and in her late thirties, asks a passer-by for directions to the refugee center. Satisfied that they were headed in the right direction, she beckons for the boy to follow her. The youth - tall, well-built, with the same dark hair as the woman, follows sullenly.

"This must be it," the woman says, indicating a building with a large sign in front that read "REFUGEE CENTER."

"Yay," the boy says unenthusiastically, then, "Why don't you just tell someone who Dad is? Maybe that will get us to Cleveland.  _This_  place certainly won't!"

"Victor, you know how your father is about people that 'drop names.' Now, simmer!" the woman snaps at the boy, who glares at her but says nothing more. "Come on," the woman says, opening the door.

The pair glance around the room, and see a desk with a large sign that read 'CHECK IN." Without a backward glance the woman strides purposefully towards the desk. A bored-looking clerk glances up at them as the woman and boy approach.

"I.D.'s, please," she says, tapping on the screen of a PADD in front of her. The woman and boy both hand over their I.D. cards. The clerk takes the woman's card and swipes it through the reader. "Name, please?"

"Hawthorne. Victoria Gail Hawthorne." the woman replies. The clerk examines the screen, nods, and swipes the boy's card. "Your name?" she asks.

"Victor John Hawthorne." The clerk nods and taps on the PADD, then looks up.

"And where are you two coming from?" she asks.

"Colorado Springs," Victoria answers. At this the clerk looks up, startled.

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard you say Colorado Springs," the clerk says, puzzled.

"I did," Victoria answers. "My husband is there. My son and I left yesterday to go to Cleveland - that's where our home is - to pick up some belongings and return to the Springs, but we got caught up in these new travel restrictions. We literally got stranded in Atlanta when the President decreed only official travel. It was only dumb luck that we managed to hitch rides with some military convoys -"

"That, and the commanders recognized Dad's name," Victor interrupted, earning him a glare from his mother.

"- as I was saying, some convoys gave us rides but now we're stuck here in - by the way,  _where_  are we?" Victoria asks.

The clerk looks at the pair sympathetically. "You're in Bethel Park, Pennsylvania," she says softly. "Listen, I was told to let my supervisors know if any refugees came in from - unusual places. Will you excuse me for a moment? And please have a seat."

"Of course," Veronica mutters, sitting down as the clerk picks up the phone. After a few minutes of waiting impatiently, Victoria notices a woman about her same age walking toward them quickly. As she neared the desk the woman extends her hand. Victoria stands up and the two women shake hands briefly.

"Mrs. Hawthorne? Your husband is Dr. Jack Hawthorne?" the woman asks.

"That's right," Victoria says cautiously. She and her son both had experienced people angry with her husband for "finding" the comet and asteroid that were now less than two days from impacting the Earth.

"I'm Charlotte Everdeen. My husband's Senator Michael Everdeen." the woman says, introducing herself.

"A pleasure, Mrs. Everdeen," Victoria says. She recognized the name. Michael Everdeen was the Senate Minority Leader and had been a strong supporter of the PAN-STARRS observatory.

"Anyway, you and your son aren't exactly run-of-the-mill refugees," Charlotte says. "I understand your husband is still at Cheyenne Mountain?"

"Yes, he is," Victoria says, and quickly relays the story of her travel difficulties to Charlotte. "Mrs. Everdeen, I'm desperate to get back to Colorado Springs. Is there anything you can do for my son and I?"

The other woman shakes her head sadly. "I'm afraid not. I've been helping out FEMA - I worked for them briefly years ago, before I was married - and as such, I have a vehicle at my disposal - something my husband doesn't even have at the moment - but hoverplanes are out of the question."

At this news Victoria slumped back in her chair and felt the tears come. She was dimly aware of her son hugging her - was he crying too? - and another pair of arms as well. Through her tears she was surprised to see Charlotte Everdeen hugging her as well.

"Listen," Charlotte says. "There's no way we're dumping you off at the FEMA camp. I really am sorry that we can't get you back to the Springs - but in the meantime, would you accept an invitation to my home? There's more than enough room."

"Oh, I really - we really couldn't impose," Victoria protests weakly.

Charlotte smiles at the other woman. "No imposition at all. The place is  _huge_! And Victor - that's right, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am - but it's Vic," the boy answers.

"Vic, I have a daughter about your age," Charlotte says with a grin. "Now, come on, you two. We'll get you home, you can clean up, have some dinner - I bet you're both hungry - and you can call your husband." Charlotte turns and gestures for a pair of workers, who hurry over.

"Yes, ma'am?" One of the men says.

"Can you put these bags in my car, please? Thank you," Charlotte says. Nodding, the men pick up the bags and disappear through a side door.

"I haven't been able to talk to Jack since yesterday," Victoria admits. "Both mine and my son's phones died and we haven't been able to re-charge them. I can't thank you enough, Mrs. Everdeen."

"It's Charlotte," the other woman says with a smile. "Now come on. We're still subject to curfew, even though my husband's a Senator and yours is part of the Brain Trust." Charlotte leads them both to a waiting car outside a side door.

"It's Victoria - or Vicky, if you prefer," Victoria says, returning her smile. The three climb into the waiting car. Once the doors are closed, the driver turns to Charlotte.

"Where to, ma'am?" he asks.

"Home, please," Charlotte replies, then turns to the couple sitting in the back. "Once we get you two cleaned up and fed, maybe you can give my husband and I updates on what's happening at Cheyenne Mountain. My sister and brother are there, you know."

"Oh, really?" Victoria says. "Where do they work?

"My sister is with the Air Force. Complex security. She's a captain. My brother is a - is in the Army. He's assigned to a Stryker Infantry Squad. Perhaps you've met one or both of them? Susanna and Richard Snow?" Charlotte asks hopefully.

As the car drives down the rapidly deserting street, Victoria looks at her son, who shrugs his shoulders.

"I'm sorry - the name Snow just doesn't sound familiar," Victoria says apologetically.

**A/N - Stay tuned - Armageddon is coming up!**


	7. THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS

**CHAPTER 7 - THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS**

**THE EARTH - FRIDAY, JULY 4TH, 2070 - ARMAGEDDON**

_The first fragment of Comet Shiva - a kilometer wide chunk of ice, rock and volatile chemicals - slammed into the Bay of Bengal exactly as predicted, at 9:18 P.M. local time. Traveling in excess of fifty kilometers per second, the fragment cut through the atmosphere at a forty-five degree angle on a roughly southeast to northwest path. The fragment begins to glow at an altitude of over one hundred fifty kilometers, heating rapidly from friction as it passes through the atmosphere. In less than two second it's already as bright as the noonday sun, but the incandescence only lasts for a few more seconds, until the fragment impacts the shallow water._

_At such a tremendous speed, the fragment cuts through the water with ease, slams into the sea floor, and explodes as the stored kinetic energy is released in an instant, creating a new, false sun that seems to rise directly from the ocean floor. This false sun, over sixteen kilometers in diameter, glows brightly for almost four minutes before fading. The force of the impact actually creates a crater over eighteen kilometers across in the water itself, and another, somewhat smaller crater in the sea floor. The shock wave radiates from the impact at near-supersonic speeds, blasting winds that make the strongest hurricanes feel like gentle spring breezes. In an instant, billions of tons of sea water are vaporized, condensing into dark, roiling clouds immediately above the fireball and spreading outward in all directions. Lightning begins to flash almost immediately._

_The mega-tsunami measures over thirty meters high as it races in all directions from the point of impact, following the same path as the impact shock wave, while a magnitude 7.7 earthquake radiates outward through the ocean floor. The quake travels faster than either the shock wave or tsunami, shaking the residents of Patheln, Sandoway, and Sittwe in Myanmar, Chittagong and Dhaka in Bangladesh, and Kolkata, Cuttack, Brahmapur, and Vishakhapatnam in India. For the coastal residents of all three countries, still densely populated in spite of repeated warnings to evacuate, all they can do is wait - and hope._

_The wait does not last long. Less than an hour after the impact-quake, the shock wave arrives with hurricane force winds, followed almost instantly by the first of several mega-tsunamis. As the tsunamis approached landfall, they slow considerably as they draw in the shallow coastal water, building heights ten times what they were on the open ocean. The coasts of Myanmar, Bangladesh, and India don't stand a chance. The tsunamis are so massive and powerful that they even managed to sweep across the Isthmus of Kra into Thailand and the Gulf of Thailand, pummeling both Thailand and Cambodia. Bangkok is flattened as a wall of water approaching one hundred meters high in places - choked with debris ranging from bricks, to human bodies, to cars, trucks and buses, even entire buildings, giving the wave the consistency of wet concrete - slams into the ancient city._

_The waves march southward, slamming into the Malaysian Peninsula, Malaysia, and Sumatra to the East, and the island of Sri Lanka to the Southwest. As the waves finally retreat, they pull millions of corpses out to sea with them. The human toll is incalculable but certainly numbers in the hundreds of millions. And, as the waves continue to pummel and drown whole countries, the first of several cyclones spins to life over the steaming Bay of Bengal crater, to further wreak havoc in the region - only, by now, all the huge storms can do is finish destroying what little works of man remain standing. There's no one left alive to kill._

* * *

_While the Bay of Bengal region is shuddering under the first terrestrial onslaught of Comet Shiva, the next fragment strikes the Earth at 7:33 P.M. local time, just outside the Iranian city of Shiraz. This fragment, similar in size to the Bay of Bengal fragment, blows a crater in the Earth over nineteen kilometers across, creating a huge false sun that lasts almost five minutes. An enormous cloud of ejecta is blown high into the stratosphere, raining down hundreds of kilometers from the impact site itself. The 8.2 magnitude quake strikes Shiraz less than a minute after impact, followed by the blast wave traveling at near-supersonic speeds. What was left of Shiraz after the quake and blast wave leveled the city, was consumed by the thermal pulse from the impact, as a firestorm engulfs what is left of the ancient city._

_However, land strikes have always been less damaging that water strikes, so the destruction is much more regional. Still, tens of millions die in a matter of minutes following the Shiraz impact, and the region will remain scarred for many thousands of years by the enormous steaming crater left behind._

* * *

_The strikes march westward. Fragment number three, measuring roughly sixteen hundred meters across, impacts the Mediterranean Sea at 4:50 P.M. local time. This fragment, sixty percent larger than the first two that impacted the Earth earlier, hits the Mediterranean roughly halfway between the islands of Crete and Sicily. The effect of the resulting mega-tsunamis on the coastlines surrounding the Mediterranean basin can best be described as dropping a boulder into a bathtub. Every single country in the region is pummeled by massive tsunamis, as the waves literally slosh back and forth in the shallow sea for hours after the impact. The great ancient cities of the region - the place many scholars credit as the cradle of Western civilization - are utterly destroyed by the continual pounding of tsunamis. Tripoli, Damascus, Jerusalem, Alexandria - all wiped from the face of the Earth. Athens, Rome, Barcelona, Marseilles - in a matter of hours it was as if these cities never existed at all._

_But this impact did much more than generate a huge crater and massive tsunamis. The great volcanic peaks of the Mediterranean - Santorini, Etna, Stromboli, even Vesuvius on the West coast of Italy - all rumble to life, awakened by the massive tremor that raced through the sea floor when the fragment impacted. These volcanic eruptions add countless tons of toxic gas and ash to the atmosphere, and generate their own destructive tsunamis to the ones already devastating the region. The eruptions continue for days until the mountains finally fall silent once again._

_Finally, as in the Bay of Bengal, the superheated crater vaporizes billions of tons of sea water. Clouds condense, lightning flashes are virtually continual, and winds build until they reach speeds in excess of three hundred kilometers an hour. Hurricane after hurricane is spawned from this unblinking eye into hell that is the Mediterranean Impact Zone. Between the massive tsunamis, volcanic pyrocastic flows, and violent hurricanes, the coastal regions of the Mediterranean are wiped clean of life of all kinds for years to come._

_In spite of all of the preparations taken by the various governments in the area, and all the evacuations conducted, uncounted millions still die. Some, lucky enough to survive the impact-spawned tsunamis, find themselves choking to death under blinding clouds of volcanic ash, while others die from landslides caused by the incessant rains caused by the hurricanes that follow the impact._

_One impact has turned the Cradle of Western Civilization into its tomb._

* * *

_Two fragments impact France - one obliterates the city of Lyon, the other falls directly on Paris. These impacts occur virtually simultaneously, at just after 5 P.M. local time. A pair of smoking, steaming craters, both nearly twenty kilometer across and almost a kilometer deep are now where the cities of Lyon and Paris once stood. Twin false suns illuminate the late afternoon summer day for several minutes before fading. The thermal pulse from both impacts ignites structure fires in a radius of several hundred kilometers in all directions, and white-hot ejecta spews high into the atmosphere, only to fall as far as a thousand kilometers away from each impact site. Fire rains from the sky all over France, Spain, Great Britain, the Low Countries, Germany, Austria and Italy._

_Thousands of fires are started from this flaming debris. Emergency services all over Western Europe are quickly overwhelmed as individual fires quickly merge into firestorms that rage unchecked across regions, and later entire countries. These fires are driven in new, unpredictable directions when firestorms meet hurricanes spinning off the Mediterranean. In some places, the torrential rains serve to extinguish raging infernos, while in others the flames are fanned to incredible heights by the hurricane winds._

_In a matter of days, virtually nothing remains in Western and Central Europe but scorched, smoking earth. Nothing remains of The City of Light but a massive, raw wound that steams for weeks after impact._

* * *

_The North Atlantic is the target of the next two fragments. Both chunks of ice, rock, and metal, each at about a kilometer across, plummet into the chill waters at 3:18 P.M. local time. As was the case with the impacts in France, both North Atlantic strikes occur virtually simultaneously. Again, false suns rise from the ocean floor to illuminate the immediate areas around each impact. The wounds in the Atlantic gape open - raw glowing gates to Hell that will be visible for days, until the encroaching ocean cools them enough to allow the water to rush back in and fill the voids._

_The impacts are too far out to have any immediate effect on any of the land masses that share the Atlantic Ocean. The blast wave, ejecta blanket, and thermal pulse radiate outward from each crater but dissipate relatively harmlessly. The only immediate casualty is not even living. The disintegrating remains of the_ R.M.S. Titanic _, resting on the floor of the North Atlantic under four thousand meters of water for the last one hundred fifty-six years, are completely obliterated by the combined shock waves traveling through the deep water at supersonic speed. In seconds, no trace of the wreck or of its debris field remain._

_The mega-tsunamis from the twin impacts collide in the open ocean, sending them in new, unpredictable directions. No Atlantic coastline is safe as one massive, debris filled wall of water after another slams into land. Ireland is completely covered by water, only a few of the higher points sticking out from the churning flood. The tsunamis have the effect of extinguishing fires along the coastlines of Western Europe and Great Britain that were caused by the Lyon and Paris impacts, replacing destruction by fire with destruction by water._

_The Madiera Islands, the Canaries, and the Azores literally disappear. The North Africa countries of Morocco, Western Sahara and Mauritania are drowned under hundreds of meters of water and debris. To the North, Greenland and Iceland gets hammered by wave after wave._

_Within scant hours after impact, the North American Continent feels the first effects of Shiva as Newfoundland and Nova Scotia are inundated by mega-tsunamis. The waves continue southward, beating against the New England States, the Atlantic Seaboard, all the way down the coast to the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida. Florida virtually disappears under the onslaught of water and debris._

_The waves march ever southward, slamming into the Bahamas, the Turks and Caicos Islands, Cuba, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, and Puerto Rico. Island chain after island chain disappears, all the way down to the coast of South America._

_Even as the waves finally subside, the impact spawned hurricanes begin to spin to life. For weeks afterward, one giant storm after another finishes the work that the tsunamis started. Between the tsunamis and the hurricanes, the effect is remarkably similar no matter where on Earth you are. The land that remains looks more like the surface of the Moon than it does the Earth._

* * *

_While the twin North Atlantic strikes were doing their damage, another strike, this one in the Central Atlantic, dwarfs everything that has come before it. Mjolnir, the massive companion asteroid to Comet Shiva, strikes the Central Atlantic at 3:27 P.M. local time. This strike creates monster tsunamis that dwarf everything that has come before. The wall of water racing out from the fifty kilometer wide hole in the ocean is over one hundred meters in height. The monster waves generated by this impact crash into the Eastern South American coast, the Caribbean, and the West coast of Africa. As these waves approach the coast they build to seeming impossible heights, until they resemble moving mountains rather than walls of water. Some monster tsunamis exceed two thousand meters in height._

_Entire island chains disappear. Coastlines are forever changed. And untold billions die. The waves from Mjolnir merge with the Twin Atlantic Impact waves, creating rogues that bounce around the Atlantic for weeks afterwards._

_The Atlantic Ocean, viewed from above in the days following the impacts, would appear to be covered with millions of tiny spots. Only on closer examination would those "spots" resolve into corpses - corpses of humans, dogs, cats, cattle and livestock of all descriptions, and wildlife of every shape and size._

_It will be years before the dead finally all disappear from the surface of the worlds oceans. The water has become the final resting place for over six billion humans._

* * *

_At 1:30 P.M. local time, the Gulf of Mexico receives a single strike. Once again, mega-tsunamis slam into the Gulf Coast states. Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana and Texas feel the wrath of Shiva. Mexico, from Matamoros to Cancun, is covered by wave after wave. Another smoking crater, more billions of tons of sea water evaporated, more hurricanes. The hurricanes grow with frightening speed. Watching an impact-spawned hurricane develop was like watching a normal hurricane form using time-lapse photography - only this was happening during normal time._

_At the same time, one fragment spins away from the main body, perhaps pushed on its new path by a collision with another fragment. This one careens northward and plummets down in a surprise trajectory straight into Lake Michigan. A series of giant, fresh water tsunamis destroy the cities of Chicago, Milwaukee and Green Bay. Hurricanes spawn directly over America's Heartland, wreaking havoc over the states of Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota, Iowa, Indiana and Ohio. The people in the Midwest are ill-equipped to deal with hurricanes. Many die and property damage is incalculable._

_Shiva is not done with North America just yet. Four land strikes - in Southern Texas in the Rocky Mountains, one each in Southern New Mexico and Southern Arizona on the Colorado Plateau, and one in California's Mojave Desert - impact the Earth starting at 11:47 A.M. local time and ending with the Mojave impact thirty-nine minutes later, at 11:26 A.M. local time. As was the case with the strikes in France, devastation from the blast wave extended out for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. The thermal pulse and superheated ejecta rain fire all throughout the American Southwest and Northern Mexico from three to five hundred kilometers from each impact. The fires caused by these impacts rage for days in some places._

_The Gulf of California - also known as the Sea of Cortez - is the recipient of a single strike at 11:39 A.M. local time. The resulting tsunamis literally cut Baja California in two and flood the West Coast of Mexico as far South as Alcapulco. At the northern end of the Sea of Cortez, the mega-tsunami is compressed into a narrow channel and blasts northward, reaching as far inland as Yuma, Arizona, Calexico, California, and the Imperial Valley. Right on the heels of this impact come the inevitable impact hurricanes to complete the destruction._

* * *

_The final series of impacts begins right before Noon local time as the remaining six major fragments walk their way across the Pacific Ocean, beginning just off the coast of California, about a hundred kilometers West of San Diego, and ending in the North Pacific, roughly halfway between the Hawaiian Islands and the Aleutian Islands off Alaska. The final major impact occurs at 11:09 A.M. Central Pacific time. Slightly less than three hours have elapsed from the first impact to the last._

_Mega-tsunamis from this last series of impacts affects every country along the Pacific Rim. There is literally no land mass North of the Equator, and few South of the Equator, that are unaffected. Hours after the final impact the Hawaiian Islands are slammed by mountains of water. The West Coast of the United States, Western Canada, and Alaska are similarly affected, as is Mexico and the West Coast of South America._

_It takes hours, and sometimes days, for the waves to subside. There is not a single recognizable coastline left on the Earth. Impact firestorms rage, sometimes for weeks, across Western and Central Europe, and the American Southwest. Each water impact spawns a minimum of three massive hurricanes - for weeks following the impacts there is scarcely any place on Earth that is not pummeled by one or more of these monster storms._

_Entire geographical features are gone forever. The Bosporus, the Rock of Gibraltar, the Isthmus of Kra, the State of Florida, and the Isthmus of Panama are a few notable features that have disappeared entirely. Whole island chains or groups have also vanished. The British Isles and Ireland are broken up into no less than six distinctive islands._

_Even after the waves subside - once the last of the impact hurricanes loses its power - the rains continue. Incredible amounts of vaporized water condense and, where the hurricanes end, the rains begin. The entire Northern Hemisphere is covered by a never-ending blanket of cloud. The hard rains last for weeks, but even after the rains taper off, the drizzle continues for months afterward. It's a rare day, indeed, to be able to see the sun, even for a few hours._

_The torrential rains have another effect. Reservoirs fill to bursting, and dams across the world fail and collapse from the weight of the water behind them, further flooding the landscape. The incessant rains cause roads to wash out, bridges to fail and collapse, and strand millions in their own small communities. Villages, towns, and cities become their own small land-locked islands, unable to reach one another. However, in a strange twist, railroad tracks, rights-of-way, and railway bridges remain remarkably intact all over North America. In the months and years to come, these will serve as the only conduits for traffic of any kind to travel from one region to another._

_The cloud cover, along with tremendous amounts of dust, soot, and volcanic ash that was thrown into the atmosphere, has another effect - cooling the Earth. Over the weeks and months following the last impact, global temperatures fall several degrees. The torrential rains had destroyed crops world wide - now the falling temperatures will make it difficult, if not impossible in some places, to grow new crops. Winter sets in early in the year 2070. Places that normally don't see snow fall until late October or early November are now seeing snow in mid-September. Other places that rarely, if ever, see snowfall of any kind are getting snow starting in mid-October._

_The survivors would call this cooling and unseasonal snowfall the Forever Winter, or the Little Ice Age, even though the Forever Winter would last just over four years._

_The impacts had another, more sinister, man-made effect. Countries that, for years, had harbored animosity toward their neighbors, and in spite of repeated attempts at peace by the United Nations, decided that the impacts were the perfect time to settle old scores. The Bay of Bengal strike had just occurred when the first missile was launched. Man-made impacts soon added their devastation to Shiva/Mjolnir, as nuclear fire blossomed over Moscow and St. Petersburg. The Russians retaliated immediately, sending their own missiles to destroy Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong. Others quickly joined suit as Pyongyang launched their own attacks against Seoul, Tokyo, Fairbanks, and Honolulu. The U.S. response was immediate and devastating, and Pyongyang didn't have to wait for an impact-related calamity to strike as submarine launched missiles destroyed the North Korean capital._

_This sad scenario was played out several times over in other parts of the world - Islamabad in Pakistan and New Delhi in India, as well as Tehran in Iran and Tel Aviv in Israel. A total of fourteen major world cities were destroyed by man before the comet even had a chance to finish its work._

* * *

_The survivors began to poke their heads out, tentatively, a few days after the final impact. Terrain features - the Himalayas in Asia, the Alps and Apennines in Europe, and the Appalachians, Rockies, Sierra Nevada, and Cascade Ranges in North America - all served as natural barriers against both mega-tsunamis and impact firestorms. For those that were left in the continental United States, it would become painfully obvious that their country was forever changed. The Pacific coast had been pushed inland over three hundred kilometers in places. Most of New England, the Atlantic Seaboard, Florida, and most of the Gulf Coast was either destroyed, under water, or uninhabitable._

_In orbit above the Earth, almost every communications, weather, and navigation satellite that had been operational on the Day of Impact had been destroyed or damaged so severely, as the orbit of the Earth passed directly through the cloud of smaller fragments that accompanied Comet Shiva, as to be useless. Communications was limited to wire, fiber optic, or line of sight radio. Relays would become a necessity until more wire, cable, and fiber optic systems could be installed. Weather forecasting would be limited to local or regional only, and navigation would have to be done the old fashioned way - with a map and a compass._

_Pockets of survivors were scattered all over the United States. Colorado Springs was the new (temporary) seat of government, but significant populations of survivors could be found all over the U.S. In places as diverse as Las Vegas, Nevada, Little Rock, Arkansas and Spokane, Washington - the organized groups of survivors began the grim task of trying to sort out what they had to work with in order to stay alive._

_Very few places escaped some sort of damage - Las Vegas and Albuquerque, New Mexico sustained ejecta damage, for example - but the locals in these areas quickly pulled together. Establishing and maintaining communications with Colorado Springs was a priority. Each local government knew that their best chance for survival would be cooperating fully with the seat of government in Colorado Springs._

_Still, the scattered groups of survivors knew that the road ahead would be difficult. Many irreplaceable caches of supplies had been destroyed, or were in places that were difficult, if not impossible, to get to. For now, all they could do was to take stock of what they had and protect what was theirs. Some wondered aloud if the truly lucky ones were the ones that had died, quickly, on July 4th._

_Many of those that survived the impact of Shiva and Mjolnir would not survive the first winter. Starvation, disease, and injuries would take their toll. Many of the very young and many of the very old would die quickly. Each group of survivors would be on its own for at least the foreseeable future. Rationing would become a way of life and the survivors would have to become tough and be willing to fight for and protect what was theirs._

_For now, survival was day to day._

_Today, July 4th, 2070, was Götterdämmerung. Ragnarok. The Twilight of the Gods._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Well, I hope I did the end of the world (as we know it) justice! I decided to do this entire chapter with no dialogue, just reporting the events as they happened. Next chapter, I promise, I will bring back characters, dialogue, and let everyone know what happens to certain key players in this drama on the day of Götterdämmerung - The Twilight of the Gods.


	8. GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG

**CHAPTER 8 - GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG**

**CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN - JPL MONITORING FACILITY - 5:00 A.M., FRIDAY, JULY 4TH, 2070**

"Clarke, this is Cheyenne Mountain, how do you read? Over," Jack Hawthorne adjusts the wireless ear buds as he stares at the computer screen in front of him.

"Stand by, Cheyenne," a voice crackles over his ear buds as the display on the computer screen changes, displaying an enormously cluttered space where Jack could see people hurrying back and forth in the background.

"Roger," Jack says, drumming his fingers impatiently. He thinks back to the last conversation he had with Victoria just hours before. She had been stranded back East when the government had effectively shut down all but essential government and military transportation, and somehow had ended up in Bethel Park, Pennsylvania, along with their son, Vic. It was only through good fortune that she and Vic had ended up being taken in by Charlotte Everdeen, whose husband, Senator Michael Everdeen, called Bethel Park home. The conversation had been brief, strained, liberally peppered with "I love you's," and ended with the promise that they would all be reunited very soon.

Nonetheless, Jack couldn't shake the feeling that he would never see or speak to his wife and son again.

"Jack?" Marco Kimbrough's familiar voice cuts through Jack's dark thoughts. "Sorry for the delay - we've been just a wee bit busy up here."

"No problem, Marco," Jack replies, grinning at the face on his computer screen. The commander of the Clarke Orbital Station grins back.

"Jack, I think we're as ready as we'll ever be. We've been monitoring Shiva's debris field and estimate that we'll have to power down all non-essential systems and divert all available power to the force field in -" Marco glances down at his watch "- thirty-eight minutes."

"Copy that, Marco," Jack says. "Depending on how that debris field acts, we may or may not have some surviving satellites after this is all over. We're hoping that some, at least, make it through."

"Operation Blanket still a go?" Marco asks. Operation Blanket was a contingency plan to put as many Electronic Warfare hoverplanes aloft as possible, in an effort to maintain world-wide communications once the network of communications, navigation, and weathers satellites was lost due to the Shiva debris field. EW hoverplanes were very fuel efficient and could stay aloft for days at a time, and even though they were designed for electronic warfare, their sophisticated electronics could adapt to a straightforward communications role very easily.

"Roger that," Jack replies. "We're launching planes starting right about now. Unfortunately, we're gonna be blind in quite a few areas - North Korea, the border between Russia and China, and a lot of the Middle East - but we'll get as much coverage as we can. We're keeping the planes well away from projected impact sites and having them fly at a ceiling of between twenty-five and thirty kilometers." While talking, Jack sees Marco turn and speak to someone off-camera, then turn back.

"Copy, Jack. Listen, I've just been informed that we need to start shutting down our comm and get our antennas retracted. We'll give you a call when it's all over. Clarke out." The computer screen in front of Jack suddenly went dark, then changed to the comm stand-by mode.

Jack sighs and removes the ear buds, setting them carefully on the desk in front of him. He rubs his face with his hands, his forehead creased in worry. He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Melody Temple-Smith smiling down at him.

"She'll be okay, Jack," Melody says softly. "Charles did a little discreet checking of his own. Bethel Park is well away from the tsunami zone and is well organized. Plus, she could do worse than stay with a U.S. Senator."

"I know, Melody," Jack sighs, looks at his watch then stands up. "Are they still serving?"

"Yeah," Melody replies. "For another twenty minutes. They have country gravy this morning, so you better hurry."

"I will, Melody," Jack says. "And Melody? Thanks."

"Anytime, Jack," Melody says with a smile.

* * *

"Blanket One Four reports on station," the voice in Jack's ear buds reports. Jack glances up from his computer screen and glances around at the other work stations. Almost the entire astronomical division of the Brain Trust is assembled here - Jack, Dr. Henry Mitchell, Melody Temple-Smith and her husband, Lieutenant Commander Charles Smith of the U.S. Navy, Dr. Thomas Jackson, and Elise Orr. Only Elena Roshenko was absent, having returned home to Odessa in the Ukraine two weeks before.

Henry, the official JPL representative, was intently studying data on his computer screen. Presidential Science Advisor Tom Jackson was talking urgently in low tones into a telephone. The rest of the team was simply - waiting.

Elise Orr straightens up, taps on her keyboard for a few seconds, then looks over at Jack.

"We just lost comm with Tyson," she reports in a flat tone. The Tyson Orbital Observatory was the most advanced space telescope ever deployed. Losing contact with it meant one thing - it no longer existed, destroyed by a fragment of comet.

Elise, tasked with monitoring the condition of various orbital platforms, has already called out the loss of various communications, weather, and navigation satellites - but Tyson hit close to home. All of the assembled astronomers had used Tyson at one time or another during their careers.

"We're getting voice feed from Blanket One Four now," Melody Temple-Smith announces. She taps a command into her computer and a new voice emanates from the speakers by the main view screen.

"- really an amazing sight," a female voice says. "Thousands of shooting stars. It's like it's raining shooting stars here. Over."

"What's the local time for Blanket One Four?" Jack asks.

"9:14 P.M. local time," Henry says. "They're orbiting their station at thirty thousand meters."

"Copy that, One Four," Melody says. "This is Cheyenne Mountain. Are you transmitting visual? Over."

"Stand by, Cheyenne. Over," the female voice says. The image on the main view screen flickers, then comes to life. The astronomers in the room gasp at the sight. It was, indeed, raining shooting stars over the Bay of Bengal. As they watched, smaller, split screen images appeared until the main image was framed by four smaller images, two on each side of the screen.

"You should be getting visual now, Cheyenne. The big image is View Forward - that's what we see out of the cockpit windows. Top left is View Overhead, beneath that is View Aft, then on the right we have View Port and View Starboard. Over." The female voice, now identified as the hoverplane pilot, says.

"Looking good, One Four. Over." Melody says. She taps on her keyboard, sending a command to broadcast the images all throughout the Cheyenne Complex.

"Could they get hit by one of those things?" A new voice asks softly. Jack turns to see Rear Admiral Quentin Mason standing just behind him.

"Unlikely, Admiral. Most of what we are seeing here are pea-sized, at best. They put on a good show, but that's about - whoa! Now  _that_  was a big one!" Jack exclaims as a bright fireball streaks across the view screen.

"That certainly wasn't pea-sized, Jack," Mason says wryly.

"They'll get bigger, Admiral," Jack says grimly.

"Cheyenne, One Four. Be advised long range radar's got a fix on the Big One. Coming in incredibly fast. We've slaved the cameras to the radar. Should have visual confirmation in a moment." The pilot's voice suddenly sounded much more tense than just two minutes before.

"Copy, One Four. Over." Melody glances up at Jack, eyes wide.

"Okay, folks. Show time." Jack says tersely.

"Visual." The pilot's voice reports. At the same time the split screens marked View Aft and View Port blaze to life as an immensely huge, incredibly bright fireball appears.

"Holy shit." Henry Mitchell mutters, eyes wide. There is a collective gasp from everyone else in the room.

"Fireball confirmed. Eight O'clock relative." The pilot's tense voice reports.

The fireball on the screens dims from painful, almost blinding brightness as the cameras compensate.

"Tracking," Jack's voice, cracking from tension, reports.

The fireball appears for a second or two on the View Forward, then seems to vanish. A second later, the images on View Port and View Forward are suddenly and completely overwhelmed by brilliance.

"Impact. Estimated sixteen degrees, twenty-eight minutes North Latitude, eighty-eight degrees, forty-five minutes East Longitude. How copy, over?" The pilot's voice, once again completely professional, reports.

"Copy impact, One Four," Melody says in a controlled voice. Jack glances over at her to see tears streaming down her face. Her husband steps in behind her and lays his hand on her shoulder, which she promptly grabs with her free hand. But her voice never wavers.

Jack turns his attention to the view screen, where an incredible false sun seems to be rising from the Bay of Bengal. As he watches, the view shifts from View Forward, to View Port, and finally to View Aft.

"Evasive," Rear Admiral Mason mutters. "Even at their distance and altitude, the shock wave is bound to be intense."

Jack examines the streams of data scrolling down his computer screen while stealing glimpses of the fading fireball on the view screen. His eyes widen slightly as one set of data streams past.

"Preliminary estimate of impact's explosive force is one million, six hundred thirty thousand megatons of TNT," Jack announces. In the background he can hear the pilot and crew of Blanket One Four transmitting voice data from the impact as well.

"When's the next impact?" Mason asks.

"Should be in the next fifteen to twenty minutes, somewhere in the Middle East. Blanket One Two is on station over the Persian Gulf but may or may not get a visual, depending on where the strike is." Jack replies. "Blankets Zero Eight and Zero Nine are over the Med and Western Europe. We should get both good visual and good data from there in about -" Jack glances at his watch "- thirty to forty minutes or so."

"Jack," Melody calls out. Jack turns around. "The fireball is fading. One Four is switching to IR."

The images on the view screen shift as the cameras switch from ambient light to infra-red. The fireball is an intense blob of white at the center, visibly shrinking now. As Jack watches, a ring seems to expand from the base of the fireball, slowly radiating outward. The ring is pinpointed by a red laser pointer.

"Impact tsunami," Tom Jackson says from his work station. He tracks the laser pointer over the ring. "It only looks slow because of the distance and altitude of One Four."

"Jack, look above the center of the fireball," Henry Mitchell says. Jack examines the area directly above the fireball, and sees a roiling mass begin to condense.

"Impact cyclone?" Jack asks. Henry nods and picks up the phone.

"I'm calling the Malarkeys. Hopefully the lines are still open to the NSSL." Henry announces. The Brain Trust meteorological team, David and Blair Malarkey, were positioned at the National Severe Storm Laboratory in Norman, Oklahoma. Henry quickly punches in the number, then announces, "On speaker."

A voice answers on the second ring. "Malarkey."

"Dave? Henry Mitchell here. Are you getting the feed from Blanket One Four?"

"Yeah. Absolutely phenomenal. Blair's trying to get a handle on wind speed based on cloud rotation, but it's difficult without a decent scale. Can One Four bounce radar off of those clouds?" In spite of the strain, Dave Malarkey's voice is brimming with excitement.

"Checking, Dave." Henry says, then glances over at Jack. "Can they do that?"

"Not sure. Those EW birds have a ton of different types of radar. Melody?" Jack says.

"On it." Melody says in a terse voice, relaying the request to One Four.

"We're working on it, Dave. What can you tell from visual?" Henry asks.

"Typical cyclonic rotation, although it's forming faster than anything I've ever seen before. Tremendous lightning activity too, and - what the hell?!" Malarkey exclaims as the pictures on the view screen suddenly shudder violently and tip crazily to one side, causing the growing storm to disappear completely.

"Shock wave," Quentin Mason announces calmly, as everyone watches the images on the view screen bounce crazily, then slowly stabilize. The image of the growing storm returns to View Aft, then slowly shifts to View Starboard and finally to View Forward.

"Sorry about that, Cheyenne. Got a pretty big kick from the shock wave. Some systems went down temporarily. Working to restore. You should be receiving radar data in a minute. Over." The pilot's calm voice cuts through the tension in the room.

"Roger. Data stream coming in. Over." Melody replies.

"Dave, are you getting the radar data?" Henry asks.

"Yeah. It's - holy shit. Preliminary wind speeds at the cloud tops in excess of six hundred forty kilometers per hour!" Malarkey says, awe in his voice.

"Over twice the wind speed of a typical Category Five hurricane," a new voice - female - announces.

"Blair?" Henry asks?

"Yes? Oh sorry, Henry. Yeah, this is Blair. Say, is that hoverplane equipped with Doppler? We need to get an idea of how fast this storm is tracking."

Henry glances up at Melody, who is speaking quickly into a microphone. She glances up and shakes her head.

"Negative on the Doppler, Blair." Henry says.

"Crap. Okay then. How long can that hoverplane stay in the area?" Blair asks.

"A day at least, Blair." Henry replies.

"Where was that hoverplane based?" Jack asks Mason.

"Diego Garcia," Mason replies grimly. "Several of the Operation Blanket hoverplanes launched from Diego Garcia. They won't be able to return there. Diego is only three meters above sea level. One Four will divert to Australia instead."

Jack nods grimly as Blair's voice comes over the speakers. "Can you please relay to the hoverplane to track that storm as close as they dare get to it? We need all the data we can get."

Melody quickly relays the request to One Four and gives Henry a thumbs up. "You got it, Blair." Henry says.

"Jack, Blanket One Two reports on station," Melody announces. "Do you want to switch over to them now?"

"Can we switch the feed from One Four directly to the NSSL?" Jack asks. After a moment, Melody nods.

"Dave? Blair? Jack Hawthorne here. Listen, we're switching the feed from One Four directly to you. One Two reports on station and we're gonna try for a visual from the Middle East strike."

"No problem, Jack," Dave replies. "Ready any time." Jack glances at Melody, who taps a few commands into her computer, then glances up and gives another thumbs up.

"One Four is all yours, Dave." Jack says. "Keep us posted on that cyclone. We'll talk to you later."

"Talk to you in a bit, Jack." Dave says as the connection is broken.

Jack glances up at the main view screen and sees the view waver, then shift to a new view. It was the same split screen format as before, only now the view showed both water - the Persian Gulf - as well as various land masses - Iran and Saudi Arabia being the two most prominent. It was sunset over the Persian Gulf, the rays of the setting sun glinting off the blue water.

The voice of the pilot of Blanket One Two - a male this time - crackles over the speakers in the room.

"Cheyenne, One Two. Radar lock on an inbound bogey, it's - friggin' thing is  _huge,_ visual momentarily, Over." The assembled astronomers wait, tense, staring at the screens until -

"There it is!" Tom Jackson shouts, as a second sun blazes to life in both the View Forward and View Port screens. It flashes across View Forward quickly and is picked up for an instant on View Overhead. The fireball itself is almost painful to look at, its trail a mixture of gray, black and brown slashed across the sky. The cameras, compensating for the brilliance of the fireball, track it all the way into -

"Impact. Inland Iran, City of Shiraz. Ground Zero is estimated at ten kilometers southwest of city center. Over." The pilots voice reports. The assembled group watches in horror as a second false sun rises up from the Iranian desert, and a massive mushroom cloud blooms over the impact fireball.

Tom Jackson taps at his computer keyboard. "The population of Shiraz is over three million," he announces in a soft voice.

"Was, you mean," Henry Mitchell replies, earning him a sharp look from Jackson.

"Alright, let's stay focused, people!" Jack barks. "We have a lot more of these to deal with today, and people will be looking to us for answers." Jack leans back in his chair, staring at the roiling fireball on the view screen, and wearily rubs his face with both hands.

_It's gonna be one hell of a long day,_  he says to himself.

**PRESIDENTIAL QUARTERS, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C. - 1:18 P.M., FRIDAY, JULY 4TH, 2070**

"Madam President?" The White House Chief Steward says, confused.

"One more time." Janice York says patiently. "Assemble the entire staff, get them on the South Lawn, and onto the Marine hoverplanes. Now." In the background, a television screen was showing the live feed from Blanket Zero Five as two fireballs slam into the North Atlantic about two hundred kilometers apart.

"Madam President, as Chief of your Security Detail, I really must insist that you accompany us to Andrews - now, ma'am." The Secret Service agent, a tall, middle aged man, his closely cropped hair graying at the temples, stood stubbornly.

"Gentlemen, I really must insist -" Ed York begins, but is stopped short by his wife holding up one well-manicured hand.

"Ed, please. Jason - Matt," Janice says, addressing the two men, "Listen. You need to evacuate the remainder of the staff. Colonel York and I are remaining here. It's where I belong. Please."

The Chief Steward and the Secret Service Agent glance at each other, confused by this turn of events. The Boss was effectively telling them to abandon her and the First Husband here, in the White House, with a mega-tsunami just hours away. This order went against every grain of their training.

Finally, the Secret Service Agent speaks. "Yes, Madam President," he says tightly. He turns to the Chief Steward. "I'll assemble the Security detail and military staff. You get domestic, clerical and communications. South Lawn. Fifteen minutes." The Chief Steward hesitates, turns to Janice, and says, "It's been an honor and privilege, Madam President." He clasps her hand tightly in both of his.

Janice York swallowed heavily and quickly blinked back tears. "Thank you, Jason. Now please make sure our people make it out of here!" Jason nods once, then turns and strides out of the quarters. He's already barking orders when he hits the hallway.

"Madam President, what the Chief said - goes double for me," The Security Chief says, taking her hands in his. Again Janice was almost overcome by emotion as she nods once and says, "Keep everyone safe, Matt!" He turns and leaves without another word.

Ed York wraps his wife in a close hug for a minute or two, then guides her over to the couch, where they sit and watch the feeds from Operation Blanket, ignoring the chaos erupting in the White House as the staff assembles to leave.

Gradually, the clamor dies away, the sound of slamming doors less frequent. Wordlessly, Ed gets up from the couch and turns the television off as the almost inaudible whine of the hoverplanes on the South Lawn reach their ears. Ed sits back on the couch and wraps his arms around his wife as the whine of the hoverplanes gets quieter until the sound fades away.

Janice and Ed York sit and listen to the sudden quiet. Even the usual noise from outside the White House is absent. The vast majority of residents had evacuated long ago. Ed steps to the French doors leading out onto the second floor balcony and opens them wide. Janice looks at him questioningly as he beckons to her to join him. Wordlessly she rises to her feet and walks over to her husband, and together they step out on to the balcony.

"What a beautiful day," Janice murmurs.

Ed glances up at the sky, seeing several dozen hoverplanes of various sizes flying overhead - all heading in the same general direction. Northwest - out of D.C. and away from the approaching mega-tsunami.

"Couldn't have asked for better weather," he agrees, slipping his arm around his wife's waist. Suddenly they both jump in surprise at the sound of gunshots pierces the unnatural quiet.

"They weren't close," Ed assures Janice. "Came from that general direction." Looking off in the direction that Ed was pointing, Janice could see smoke rising from at least a dozen different parts of the city.

"I guess not everyone evacuated," she says.

"Do you regret not going?" Ed asks softly.

Janice hesitates for a moment. "I regret a lot of things." she says finally. "I regret the things I was forced by circumstances to do. I regret having to order summary executions, and being forced to ignore the Constitution, but most of all I regret shipping our kids off to Quebec." Janice felt tears come again and this time she didn't try to fight them off.

Ed holds his wife closer to him. "I tried calling a while ago, but we'd already lost too many comm satellites. Even the White House Comm Room couldn't manage to punch a call through." Ed says.

"I know. So did I," Janice says. "I hope to God that the kids will be all right."

"They will be," Ed says confidently. "Your aunt and uncle adore them."

"I know. I just wish I could have - said goodbye." Janice says with a sob.

"I know," Ed says simply. They sit in silence for a few moments, then Ed stands up.

"Come on," he says, holding his hand out to his wife.

Janice stands up, confused. She takes his hand and says, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," is all Ed would say as he leads his wife out of the Quarters, down another corridor, and into a room.

"Ed, I don't get it. The Lincoln Bedroom?" Janice asks, looking at her husband in confusion.

Ed grins at his wife. "I've always wanted to make love to you in this room," he says, taking her into his arms. "Now's the time."

Janice smiles up at her husband. "I love you, Edward York," she whispers.

"And I love you - Madam President," he says before kissing her deeply.

* * *

Hours later, they are still laying in the tangled sheets, perspiration dotting their bare skin from their recent exertions. Outside, the skies have darkened as thick black clouds scudded across the summer sky. Ed and Janice can hear the peals of thunder getting closer as lightning flashes illuminate the gloom with increasing frequency.

Janice presses her naked body closer to her husband, feeling her heart pounding with rising fear as a new sound joined the claps of thunder and drenching rainfall - a low, ominous rumble, getting louder by the second.

Ed wraps his arms around his wife protectively, holding her trembling body as close to him as possible as the rumbling sound gets louder and louder.

"Ed -" Janice says in almost a whimper.

"Shhh, Jan. Close your eyes," her husband says, trying to control his own racing heart and choking down the sour bile rising in his throat. The rumble was a constant roar now.

"I love you, Ed," Janice whispers, closing her eyes and kissing her husband deeply.

"I love you, Jan," Ed replies, returning her kiss. They both stiffen momentarily as they feel the very foundation of the White House shudder violently as the roar from outside reaches deafening heights.

The wall of water, taller than the Washington Monument, slams into the White House at close to one hundred sixty kilometers an hour. Janice and Ed, arms and legs intertwined, feel a momentary numbing coldness a second before blackness descends on them both.

They don't feel any pain at all.

**PINE BLUFF, ARKANSAS - 3:00 P.M., FRIDAY, JULY 4TH, 2070**

Lucas O'Dair drives slowly through the nearly deserted Pine Bluff streets. Even though he was dressed in street clothes, he's in a marked Jefferson County Sheriff's Department car. Outside, rain was falling in sheets and lightning flashes were almost constant.

Lucas adjusted the boom mike, bringing it closer to his mouth, and keyed up the microphone once again.

"Attention. Curfew is in effect. Please remain in your homes. I repeat, curfew is in effect. Please remain in your homes." Lucas spoke into the boom mike, barely hearing his amplified words over the power of the storm outside.

_As if anyone's gonna be crazy enough to go outside in_ this! Lucas says to himself. They got the news of the first comet strike a few hours ago. News reports have been spotty and inconsistent, due to the loss of communications satellites to cometary debris. Still, Lucas is painfully aware of one fact.

The shit has really hit the fan.

Ever since that day a couple of weeks before, when he and his boys had to fend off a pack of gang-bangers trying to rob them of  _fish_ , of all things, conditions had steadily worsened in Pine Bluff. The military had come in and, working with the Pine Bluff Police as well as the Jefferson County Sheriff, had confiscated what food remained on supermarket shelves and had imposed a strict rationing system. Now, with comet pieces falling all over the world, things were bound to get worse before they get any better.

Lucas shakes his head in disgust. First the rationing, then the transportation restrictions, and now this damn rain that blew in out of nowhere -  _Well, not nowhere,_ Lucas says to himself,  _but from the Gulf of Mexico strike a couple of hours ago_  - and, in spite of all that, people were  _still_  venturing out.

Lucas wanted nothing more than to be at home with his family right now. Holly was a good woman - strong and reliable, they had been married for twenty years - and his boys, Lucas Jr. and Sam, had shown themselves to be able to be capable as well - but dammit! It was his job to take care of his family! Screw the feds - his obligation to Holly, Lucas and Sam come first!

Sighing, he turned and headed to the West side of town, repeating his warning every couple of minutes. He had just finished cruising one neighborhood and was turning around when he heard it.

A low rumbling noise, rapidly approaching and getting louder. Automatically Lucas glanced up, searching the skies for any sign of funnel clouds or tornados, but saw only iron gray clouds and torrential rain. It was only when he glanced in the direction of the river that he saw it. And his brain still didn't immediately process what he was seeing.

A wall of water, over twenty five meters high, was rolling  _up-river_ , going at least fifty kilometers an hour. Lucas sat, transfixed, as the massive tidal bore surged ahead, carrying all manner of debris with it - trees, cars, even whole houses were caught in the churning gray water. Dimly, Lucas could hear the tornado siren start to wail and wondered what dumb-ass decided to trigger that. All Lucas could do was watch as the wall of water, easily spilling over the banks of the river, encroached on Pine Bluff for the better part of a kilometer on each side of the river.

The crackle of the radio spurred him to action, and, gunning his hydrogen powered engine, he sped down towards the river. He wasn't prepared for what he saw.

Lucas was forced to stop blocks away from the river and could only watch as the water literally scoured a good percentage of Pine Bluff clean, ripping houses from their foundations with ease. Stepping out of his car and mindless of the rain soaking him through instantly, Lucas imagined that he could hear the screams of people, trapped in their homes as they were ripped apart by the raging water. As he watched, the bore continued to surge into the rainy distance, finally disappearing from sight.

But the flood waters remained, boiling and roiling, a thick, gray churning mass that was still pulling debris into the river. As a new flash of lightning illuminated the nightmare scene before him, Lucas, finally free from the paralysis that gripped him, slid back into his car and grabbed the radio to attempt to report what he just saw.

Lucas had just finished making a somewhat disjointed, but surprisingly coherent, report to Central Dispatch when he heard the rumbling sound again. Not hesitating, he starts his car and slams it into reverse, backing up the street at high speed as a second, larger tidal bore surges up the river. This one wasn't nearly as choked with debris as the first. The first bore had done its job very well and had left little for the second to destroy.

Lucas has no way of knowing that these tidal bores were born from the Gulf of Mexico mega-tsunami. Surging up the Mississippi River and on to the Arkansas River, these massive tidal bores managed to circumvent hills and mountain ranges alike, surging up-river with tremendous speed and incredible force.

Numbly, Lucas drives the patrol car back to his home. He staggers into the house - now illuminated by lantern and candlelight, now that power had been lost, and shakily envelopes Holly in his arms.

Dripping wet, he holds his wife close for a moment, then pulls back and looks at her.

"I've seen hell," he says. "I've seen hell, and it's not fire. It's water."

**CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - BASE CAMP MURPHY, COMPANY B, 1ST BATTALION, 15TH INFANTRY REGIMENT, 3RD MECHANIZED INFANTRY DIVISION - 10:00 A.M., FRIDAY, JULY 4TH, 2070**

Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise moves quickly from one bunker to the next, checking her troops for the fourth time in the last two hours. They had been ordered into their prepared positions on the perimeter hours before, and she knew they were getting antsy.

Keyed up by the possibility of - what? Attack by refugees? Meteors dropping from the sky? Aliens? - the squad, along with the rest of Bravo Company, had settled into their section of the perimeter, taut and alert. But, as the hours progressed with no activity and no movement to their front, the troops started getting bored. Lacking orders to the contrary, Jamie put her squad on fifty percent alert, allowing half the squad to nap, use the latrine, eat, or just generally relax while the other half remained vigilant.

Jamie's squad had the responsibility for four two-soldier bunkers as well as the hull-down position for the Stryker. All in all, her chunk of the perimeter was a rough line about fifty meters in length, tied in with similar squads to her left and right. As Jamie walked the line, she glanced into one bunker and saw Private Richard Snow, peering out at the free-fire zone to his front, his hands clutching his rifle. Sensing her presence, he glanced behind him once. Jamie nodded at him quickly, once. He returns her nod with one of his own, then resumes his vigilance.

_Maybe Snowflake's gonna turn out okay after all_ , Jamie says to herself. She resumes her walk, speaking briefly with members of her squad, everyone universally bemoaning the "dumb ass chickenshit" that put them in their fighting positions to begin with. Jamie lets them vent. She knew from experience that soldiers were rarely happy unless they had something to bitch about.

At the far end of her walk, she runs into her Platoon Leader and Platoon Sergeant. She quickly briefs them on what's been happening in her sector (nothing), and lets them know that she put her squad on fifty percent alert. The Platoon Sergeant laughs and tells her that they were coming over to tell her to do that very thing.

_Why bother walking over? Why not just call on the landline instead?_ Jamie wonders, even as she asks for any new word on the status of the comet strikes. The Platoon Leader, a young Lieutenant a year out of the Military Academy, admits that the "word" has been spotty, even though the literal nerve center of the entire country sits in the very mountain that they were guarding.

The Lieutenant promises to pass along any information that he may get promptly, as he and the Platoon Sergeant continue their rounds. Shaking her head, Jamie returns to the Stryker and raps on the ramp door with the butt of her rifle. A second later, she hears two sharp beeps from the vehicle horn and immediately steps aside as the ramp is lowered.

Sergeant Zack Clark, her assistant, greets her with a steaming cup of coffee. Jamie takes it gratefully and removes her helmet, scratching vigorously at the tightly packed curls on her head.

Zack steps out of the Stryker, holding his own cup of coffee and carrying his helmet carelessly by the chin strap. Jamie examined her friend closely. His head still had a bandage on it, courtesy of being sucker punched by a refugee with an ax handle, and his face and neck still showed bruising, but otherwise he seemed in good spirits.

Setting his helmet down, Zack scratched absently at his bandage. "Any new word?" he asks.

"Nada." Jamie answers, taking a sip from her coffee.

"Fuck," Zack says in disgust. "You'd think with all the info pouring into that friggin' mountain there -" he jerks his thumb at the mass of Cheyenne Mountain "- we'd be swimming in intel. But noooo, friggin' brass treatin' us like mushrooms again - feedin' us bullshit and keepin' us in the friggin' dark!"

Jamie laughs at her friend's frustrated outburst. "Hey, the LT said that he'd get us the word ASAP."

"Okay, whatever, Jamie," Zack says, taking a noisy sip from his cup. "Personally, I don't think there is any comet strike! This whole exercise is just to fuck with us! Ya know what I -" Zack stops in mid-sentence at a sudden bright flash of light. Instinctively, they both glance up - and gasp.

An intensely bright pinpoint of light, as bright as the sun, is tearing across the mid-morning sky, roughly Southeast to Northwest, due North of where Zack and Jamie stand, transfixed, trailing a dirty, brownish gray-black trail behind it. Even as they watch the mini-sun streak away, there is an intensely loud thunderclap as the sonic boom rolls over their camp.

"HIT IT! EVERYONE DOWN!" Jamie shouts and dives to the ground, not waiting to see if her order was followed or not. She covers her head with her arms, her helmet spinning on the ground beside her, useless. A second later, Jamie can see an intensely bright flash, brighter even than the light in the sky, suddenly light up their perimeter, like the flash of a giant flashbulb.

As the light fades, Jamie staggers to her feet, blinking her eyes rapidly, trying to clear away the spots that were dancing in front of her face. She sees Zack pushing himself up awkwardly and reaches out a hand to steady him, then pulls him to his feet.

Jamie glances around and sees other members of her squad dazedly standing up, brushing themselves off, confusion written all over their faces.

"You okay?" Jamie asks Zack, who nods, the dazed look still on his face. "Everyone okay?" Jamie shouts. "Count off, people!" She hears each member of her squad count off until everyone is accounted for, then turns back to Zack, grinning.

"You can thank me for doing your job later," she says, then realizes that Zack isn't even listening - instead, he's staring off in the distance. As Jamie turns to see what he's looking at, she hears him mutter, "Holy fuck."

Jamie finally sees what her assistant had been staring at, and says quietly, "My sentiments exactly."

Due North from where they stood, a mushroom cloud was slowly rising into the morning air. One member of her squad told her that he happened to be looking in that direction when he saw the explosion. It was intensely bright, he said, but he hadn't been looking directly at it. He said it seemed to explode in mid-air.

"A nuke?" Zack asks quietly?

Jamie snorts. "Did you see how  _fast_  that friggin' thing was goin'? That was no nuke!"

"Then what the hell was it? I didn't think there was supposed to be any strikes around here!" Zack says.

"Better sue the comet, Zack." Jamie says sarcastically. As soon as she says it a rolling roar envelopes them, followed by a strong gust of wind lasting ten seconds or so.

"Blast and shock wave," Jamie mutters, then, "Anyone get flash to bang time? Anyone?"

"I did," a voice from one of the bunkers says. Private Richard Snow emerges, looking at Jamie. "Three hundred seconds, give or take - I was startled. But that's pretty close."

"Good work, Snow." Jamie says as she ducks inside the Stryker and re-emerges with her map case. "Zack - shoot me an azimuth to the cloud base!" she shouts as she fumbles with her maps.

Zack squints down at his compass, and calls out, "I've got three hundred fifty degrees."

Muttering to herself, Jamie carefully lays her protractor on the map, with the center of the protractor on their camp, and makes a small pencil mark at the three hundred fifty degree mark, then carefully draws a line from their base camp through the pencil mark.

"Three hundred seconds," she mutters to herself, "And the speed of sound is -" she quickly converts the time it took for the sound of the blast and shock wave to arrive to distance, then compares it to the map. Cursing to herself, she double checks her figures, then straightens up.

Grabbing the field phone, she pumps the ringer several times and puts the phone to her ear.

"LT? Sergeant Wise. That air burst? Anyone else report on it? No? I've got ground zero. Okay, I'll stand by." Jamie looks at Zack and cups her hand over the mouthpiece.

"LT's connecting me with the Command Post." she says, then, "Yeah? Captain? Sergeant Wise here. I've got ground zero for that air-burster, sir. It's Denver. Damn thing exploded right over Denver. Roger that, sir. Thanks." Jamie hangs up the phone and looks at Zack.

"You were saying something about that there was no comet strike, Zack? Tell that to the folks in Denver, Aurora, and Littleton - if you can find any alive, that is." Jamie says wearily, then, "Alright people, show's over. Back to your positions and stay alert!"


	9. AFTERMATH

**CHAPTER 9 - AFTERMATH**

**NATIONAL COMMAND CENTER, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO - FRIDAY, JULY 4TH, 2070 - NOON**

"Mr. Vice President?" Dan Crane says softly, standing to the right and slightly to the rear of Alexander Cray. At that particular moment, the Vice President had been listening to radio traffic between Clarke Station, in orbit over four hundred twenty kilometers above the Earth, and the JPL Monitoring Center.

The traffic was spotty and full of static - with almost all of the Earth-bound tracking stations destroyed or at least silenced by the impacts (likewise with almost all of the orbiting comm satellites), voice communications was limited to a brief few minutes every couple of hours. It was gratifying to know, however, that the force field that had been placed around the orbiting station had worked perfectly.

Right now Cray was listening to the voice of one of the station technicians - not the commander, Kimbrough - speaking with Henry Mitchell and Jack Hawthorne about something called a "data dump." In truth, Cray felt somewhat useless, and had been listening in more to keep himself busy than anything else - waiting for the inevitable - which seemed to be now.

"Dan," Vice President Cray says with a smile as he swivels his chair around to face the White House Chief of Staff. "Word from the boss, I hope?" Although Cray was a career politician and had been a very capable legislator, he had never been entirely comfortable with assuming the mantle of command. And even though he was aware that President Janice York intended to stay in Washington, he still harbored hope that she would ultimately change her mind.

"No, sir - I'm afraid not. Sir, I - there's something the President needs you to view," Dan says haltingly. He extends his hand to Cray. In his hand was a PADD and a sealed envelope. "The President instructed me to deliver these to you personally, once the impacts were confirmed." Dan turns to a stenographer, sitting quietly to one side. "Please record the date and time that I delivered the PADD and envelope to Vice President Cray."

The stenographer sits bolt upright and taps the PADD in front of her as she quickly notes the date and time. With a trembling hand, Alexander Cray takes the PADD and envelope from Dan Crane. He sees Dan glance to one side and notices Amanda Dalton, The White House Deputy Chief of Staff, standing to one side. Dan shoots her a questioning glance and Amanda responds with, "I just checked. Comm is still up with the White House."

Dan nods. "Thank you, Amanda." He turns back to Cray. "Mr. Vice President, please note that the envelope was sealed at the White House by President York." Cray turns the envelope over, notes the seal across the back, and says, "Yes. The envelope is sealed."

"Sir, the envelope contains the pass phrase for accessing the information on the PADD. You may want to use an office in order to view the contents of the PADD." Dan steps back and indicates a nearby office. Cray stands up and, carrying the PADD and envelope, steps into the vacant office and shuts the door.

Dan and Amanda wait quietly outside for a few minutes. There's no sound from the office. Finally Amanda says, "I'll call comm and get a line check with the White House."

"Okay," says Dan. Amanda steps to the stenographers desk and, with a smile, asks her if she could borrow her phone for a moment, then punches in a number from memory.

"Dan." Dan turns to see Alexander Cray, looking ashen-faced, stepping thought the door to the office and back into the Main Command Center.

"Sir?" Dan replies.

"Please locate the Chief Justice and have him report here ASAP. And tell him to bring - to bring a Bible. Jesus Christ, it's real." Cray makes his way to the chair he had been sitting in earlier and sits down heavily.

"Right away, Mr. Vice President," Dan says. He steps to the stenographers desk and waits for Amanda to finish with the phone. At that moment Amanda hangs up the phone and straightens up, her eyes suddenly moist with tears.

"Comm," she begins, her voice cracking. She stops and clears her throat, blinking rapidly. "Comm reports all communications between here and the White House are - severed as of two minutes ago. Fiber optic, microwave, wire, standard radio - all carriers suddenly - disappeared, virtually simultaneously."

"Any word from Air Force One?" Cray asks.

"Air Force Tail Number B1957B is en route, sir." Dan replies, using the official Air Force designation for the Presidential Hoverplane, when the President was not on board. "The White House Chief Steward and the Chief of the Secret Service Security Detail are the two senior staffers on board."

"Change ASAP to 'immediately,' Dan, for the Chief Justice," Cray says, rubbing his hand over his face. "And - and my wife, also. She should be here."

"Right away, Mr. President," Dan says, picking up the phone and punching in a number from memory.

"Oh, fuck," President Alexander Cray says quietly.

* * *

"I, Alexander Cray, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States. So help me God."

With these words, Alexander Cray became the President of the United States. With his right hand raised, palm outward, and his left hand resting on a Bible, Cray parroted the words recited by the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court. It was only when the Chief Justice offered his hand in congratulation did it truly sink in.

_I'm the President of the United States of America! Or, rather, what's_ left _of the United States or America, anyway._

Cray accepted congratulations and handshakes from the small group assembled in the Command Center Conference Room - but after a few minutes it was painfully apparent that it was back to business.

"Folks," Cray says loudly, cutting through the buzz of conversation in the conference room, "Let's take our seats. I understand that some matters need my attention." The assembled Cabinet members and Joint Chiefs of Staff quickly find chairs. Once everyone was seated, Cray glanced down at a pad of paper in front of him, then glanced up.

"Item one. Leigh? You have the floor, Madam Secretary." Cray announces.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Secretary of Defense Leigh Paylor stands up. "We've received confirmation from Clarke during their last orbital pass that Pyongyang did launch several nuclear devices at Seoul, Tokyo, Fairbanks, and Honolulu." There was a collective gasp from the assembled cabinet members that died just as quickly. "It's been confirmed that these devices did strike their intended targets with low yield nuclear weapons. The EW birds flying Operation Blanket are all armed with a pair of intermediate yield cruise missiles. Blanket One Seven is in position to respond, sir."

Cray leaned back in his chair.  _My first act as President is to do something only one other President - Harry S Truman - has done, and order a nuclear strike on another power._  He glances up at Leigh Paylor before answering.

"I - I'll need the Football," he said in a surprisingly calm voice.

"Here, Mr. President." A young woman steps forward, a small briefcase handcuffed to her wrist. The Football - the briefcase that contained the nuclear launch codes - was never more than a couple of steps away from the President. Cray opened the briefcase with surprisingly steady hands and removed the launch codes and transmitter. Quickly entering the code, he punched "Confirm" when prompted. Cray then motioned Leigh Paylor over to him.

"Madam Secretary, please confirm the order to launch two intermediate-yield weapons, target: Pyongyang, People's Democratic Republic of North Korea." Cray says, handing the transmitter to her.

Paylor takes the transmitter, and, her hand shaking only slightly, quickly confirms the order

Once he was finished, he replaced the transmitter back into the briefcase and re-locked it. Only then did he notice that the room was dead silent.

"Blanket One Seven acknowledges receipt of the launch order, Mr. President," Paylor says. Only then does Cray notice the ear buds that she is wearing in both ears. As he watches, Leigh Paylor tilts her head to the side and presses one hand to her ear.

"Birds away," she announces.

"What's the flight time?" someone asks.

"From the last reported position of Blanket One Seven, about five minutes, Mr. President" a deep voice answers. Cray glances up and nods thanks to the Air Force Chief of Staff.

"Blanket One Seven reports birds are nominal, Mr. President," Paylor reports. The minutes tick by slowly, until finally -

"Blanket One Seven reports twin flashes and mushroom clouds over Pyongyang, Mr. President." Leigh Paylor announces in a voice that trembles only slightly.

_I've been President for, let's see - about twenty minutes, and I'm already responsible for the death of millions._  President Alexander Cray surveys the assembled Cabinet and allows himself to sigh once, deeply.

"Alright," he says briskly. "Good job, Leigh. Let's see - item number two -"

**MONT-LAURIER, QUEBEC - LIEGE RESIDENCE - ONE WEEK AFTER COMET FALL - SOMETIME IN THE MORNING**

Veronica York sat at the front room window, staring morosely out into the morning gloom. Today was like every other day for the past two weeks - wet and rainy. The rain had started just hours after the comet fragments had struck the Earth and hadn't stopped in over two weeks. Sometimes it slowed from its usual hard, incessant pounding - but it never stopped.

Veronica sighed deeply and let her gaze drop to the telephone sitting on the end table. She had last talked to Mom and Dad on that very same phone the day before...all this happened. The instrument had remained silent ever since. Great Uncle Henri had mentioned something about the local phone company working to restore local service, but they would be lucky to get even that.

_They're all right,_  Veronica says to herself.  _I know they are, because - they just_ HAVE _to be._  News from anywhere outside Mont-Laurier was spotty at best. A few local radio operators managed to contact people that said they had seen the destruction caused by the mega-tsunamis. They described "a mountain of water" choked with every form of debris imaginable completely destroying everything in its path, leaving nothing standing when it receded. Halifax, Yarmouth, Bangor, Augusta, Boston, New York City, Philadelphia, Norfolk, Savannah - and Washington, D.C. - all gone.

But now, even the radios were silent. Power was spotty at best and more often than not homes were lit at night by candles or lanterns. People weren't used to using Nineteenth Century lighting in Twenty-First Century homes, and there had already been numerous fire outbreaks that were thankfully almost always confined to the home or building where the fire started - one positive effect of the rain. And a good thing, too - the local Fire Department was pretty much impotent when it came to fighting any size fire. Without reliable water pressure, the fire hydrants were all pretty much useless.

Veronica stares down the street at the still smoldering remains of one such home. It had gone up in flames two nights ago, with the occupants - a family of five - trapped inside. Even though she had remained inside Uncle Henri's house, she could hear - or thought she could hear - the screams of the people trapped inside as they burned to death.

Veronica had nightmares every night since the comet fell. At first, her screams brought members of her Secret Service detail bursting into her room, guns drawn - only to find the thirteen year old girl still asleep, alone, eyes tightly clenched shut, her bedding in a tangle around her. Now, one member of the detail will just crack the door to look in on her - but they no longer enter, instead, they simply shut the door quietly.

"Veronica?" The girl jumped slightly at the sound of her name and spun around, embarrassed at being so easily startled. Great Aunt Clotilde stood there with a steaming cup in each hand.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," Clotilde says. "I made some mint tea and thought you might like a cup."

"It's okay, Aunt Clotilde," Veronica says with a small smile. "Yes, I would love some tea, thank you." Veronica takes the cup gratefully as Clotilde sits near her, also by the window. Veronica inhales the mint aroma rising from the cup and tries to ignore her own stomach rumbling. Food had been rationed almost as soon as the first comet strike was reported, and both Veronica and her twin brother Edward were always hungry.

"It's not rationed," Clotilde says suddenly. "The mint. I grow it myself. They haven't started raiding back yard vegetable gardens - yet."

"It's really good," Veronica says, after taking a cautious sip.

Clotilde smiled sadly at the girl. "I'm so sorry you and Ed are hungry," she says. "Hopefully, things will get back to normal soon, and then -"

Clotilde suddenly falls silent as a sudden movement outside, followed by the high pitched whine of several large hydrogen engines, brings her attention back to the window.

Both Clotilde and Veronica stared in amazement at the unexpected sight of a military convoy rolling slowly down the street. As they watched, they saw the lead vehicle pull off to the side of the street and stop, the other vehicles in the convoy following suit. As soon as the vehicles stopped Veronica and Clotilde saw armed soldiers quickly dismount and begin to form a perimeter around the convoy.

"What the hell?" A male voice from behind them causes Clotilde and Veronica to turn around. Gregory Coin, the head of the Secret Service Protection Detail for Veronica and Edward York, Jr., was standing in the living room, staring out the window.

"Mr. Coin? What's going on?" Veronica asks. Coin shakes his head slowly and shrugs his shoulders.

"I'm not sure, Veronica," he finally replies. "But those are U.S. Military uniforms out there." Coin turns and barks out the names of two Secret Service agents, and walks briskly to the door, where he's met by the other two agents. Coin speaks quickly and quietly into the commicuff on his right wrist. Pulling on rain slickers, the three agents pause at the door as Coin turns back toward the living room.

"You two please stay in here," he says, then opens the front door and he and the two agents step out into the rain storm to greet the soldiers - and to get some answers.

* * *

Major Nate Holmes, United States Marine Corps, stands hunched in the pouring rain, muttering profanities to himself as he studies the plastic covered map spread out over the hood of his command vehicle.

"Where the fuck did you say we were, Captain?" Holmes asks, never looking up from the map.

"Mont-Laurier, Quebec, sir," the officer standing to his right replies immediately.

"Mont-Laurier," Holmes mutters, tracing one finger over the wet plastic. "And that bridge on Highway 117 is definitely out?"

"Yes, sir," the Captain replies.

"Shit," Holmes says in disgust. "Captain, see if you can dig up some locals that may know of another way across that damn river!"

"Aye aye, sir," the Captain says, turning away, then stopping suddenly.

"Major Holmes," the Captain says, tapping Holmes on the shoulder. Holmes straightens up and turns around.

Holmes sees three men approaching - and something tells him that they aren't Canadians.

The three men stop a few steps from the command vehicle, and the man in front puts his hand up slowly.

"I'm going to reach inside my jacket to get my identification," the man says. Holmes nods curtly.

The man slowly reaches his right hand into the open front of his rain slicker and withdraws an ID wallet. Extending his hand, he hands the wallet to Holmes. Holmes takes the wallet and turns away, opening the door of the command vehicle and leaning in out of the rain to examine the identification.

Straightening up, Holmes closes the door to the command vehicle and turns back to the three men. He hands the ID wallet back to the first man.

"You're Agent Coin, I presume?" Holmes asks.

"Gregory Coin, Special Agent in Charge, U.S. Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail." Gregory Coin replies, extending his hand.

Holmes grips Coin's hand firmly. "Major Nathaniel Holmes, United States Marine Corps. Commander, One Hundred Third Special Transportation Company, United States Naval Base, New London, Connecticut."

"Long way from Groton, Major," Coin says.

"Agent Coin, I might say the same about you," Holmes replies. "And I'm reasonably sure that the President isn't here."

"Not President York," Coin says softly. "My assignment is to protect her children."

Holmes raises his eyebrows in surprise at this revelation. "Her kids are here? Why here?"

"Long story, Major," Coin replies dryly. "So this is a transportation unit? What is the Marine Corps transporting and why in Canada?"

"The cargo is...classified, Agent Coin," Holmes replies carefully. "As for us being in Canada, well, circumstances forced us to take some alternative routes." Inwardly, Holmes shudders, thinking how close they came to being hit by one of the monster tsunamis that had battered the Atlantic Seaboard for hours after the comet and asteroid strikes. Coin nods thoughtfully - no other explanation is necessary right now.

"Do you happen to know another way across the river?" Holmes asks Coin. "The Highway 117 bridge is out."

"Yeah, we know. And no, I don't know of any other way across the river. The 117 bridge was the largest bridge in this area. If it's gone then I'm sure the smaller ones are also."

"Fuck." Holmes says quietly. "Is there an RCMP detachment here? Maybe the Mounties know of an alternate route."

"They're in town. I can take you there, but I wouldn't get my hopes up." Coin replies.

"Can you give my Captain directions to their headquarters?" Holmes asks.

"Sure," Coin replies. "It's easy enough to find."

"One moment, Agent Coin." Holmes turns to the Captain. "Captain, I need you to touch base with the Mounties on a couple of subjects - one, where we can put the company up for the night, and, two, if they know of any other way across that damn river. Got it?"

"Aye aye, sir," the Captain replies. Coin quickly gives him directions while Holmes issues orders to his other officers. The two men then watch the command vehicle start up and move slowly down the street.

"I'm staying over here, Major," Coin says, indicating the Liege home. "I'd like to get some word about what's been happening in the rest of the world. We haven't got much news up here. Come on with me - give you a chance to get dry for a few minutes."

"Don't mind if I do," Holmes says, as the two men walk back to the Liege home, trailed by the other two Secret Service agents.

"So you have President York's kids here with you?" Holmes asks as they walk.

"Yeah. The President didn't feel that Cheyenne Mountain was a good place for them. The folks we're staying with - Henri and Clotilde Liege - are the President's Uncle and Aunt." Coin replies.

"Were," Holmes says quietly. Coin glances at Holmes, eyebrows arched.

"Were?" Coin asks.

"I assume you didn't hear," Holmes says, and takes a deep breath. "Alexander Cray was sworn in as President a week ago...the day the comet fell."

Coin glances sharply at Holmes. "Then that means -" Coin begins.

"Yeah." Holmes says. "The President didn't make it out of D.C."

"Shit." Coin says softly. "Please don't say anything to the kids. I want to talk to Henri and Clotilde first. Let them break the news. And my wife also - Lynnette is Secret Service as well. I'll want her there when the kids find out."

"Sure, no problem." Holmes says. He hesitates for a moment before continuing. "Agent Coin - about our cargo -"

"Yes? What about it? You said it's classified." Coin replies.

Holmes stops suddenly. Coin turns to him questioningly. Holmes takes Coin by the arm and leads him a few steps away from the other two agents. The two men start to follow but stop as soon as Coin puts his hand up.

"Agent Coin, you're the closest thing to being a U.S. Government representative here, so I'm gonna disclose our cargo. But it goes no further than us two. Not even your wife. Got it?" Holmes says urgently.

"Got it, Major." Coin says.

Holmes takes a deep breath. "It's nukes."

Coin looks sharply at Holmes. "Nukes?"

"Yes," Holmes says. "Sub launched ballistic and cruise missiles. The Groton/New London complex was smack in the heart of the tsunami zone. These weapons were earmarked for the ballistic missile sub  _Savannah_ , but she didn't port in time - had some problems out at sea. So I got tasked to move them to safety, only everything was done at the last minute. I don't even know if my family made it out safely."

"I'm sorry - about your family." Coin says. "As far as the nukes go - we'll have to find someplace to store them temporarily if we can't find a way for you to get across the river."

"Thanks, Agent Coin," Holmes says gratefully, then, "Good thing everything's hydrogen powered now. We have our own cracking generator - we can turn water into hydrogen and oxygen. All we need is water and we have plenty of that! Any other fuel and we would've been stranded days ago."

"That may be useful," Coin says, as the two men turn and continue to walk back to the Liege home. "I'm not sure if there's any reliable source of hydrogen around here. You can manufacture hydrogen for us until we can figure out how to get you across the river. But for now, I have something else to take care of."

"I understand," Holmes says quietly.

"Thanks," Coin says, as they reach the front door, and are immediately met by Henri and Clotilde Liege as well as the York children.

_Now all I gotta do is figure out the best way to let the kids know that they're orphans,_  Coin says to himself bitterly.

**BETHEL PARK, PENNSYLVANIA - THE EVERDEEN RESIDENCE - TWO WEEKS AFTER COMET FALL - EARLY EVENING**

Vic Hawthorne carefully places the splitting maul against the end of the upright log, then takes a firm grip on the handle and nods at Michael Everdeen. Everdeen swings a sledge hammer up and over his head, bringing it down on the maul with a clang. Vic can feel the vibration of the impact through the handle of the maul as the splitting wedge is driven halfway through the log. Taking a better grip on the maul handle, Vic picks up the maul and the log and slams both down - once, twice, three times - each blow driving the splitting wedge deeper into the log until it finally splits in two.

Ignoring the pain from the blisters on his hands, Vic picks up one of the halves and repeats the process, then does the same with the other half.

As the quarters fall away, they are quickly scooped up by Michael Everdeen's two sons, Mike Jr., age twelve, and Will, age ten, who stack them neatly in a growing pile, then grab another log to split from another, smaller pile.

They had been at this pretty much all day. A power splitter sits off to one side, useless for lack of fuel. Both Vic and Michael had been wearing gloves earlier, but the incessant rain had soaked the gloves thoroughly, causing both Vic and Michael to abandon them before noon. Now both had hands that were masses of bleeding blisters.

They repeat the process with this log, and the next, and the next after that, until Michael calls it quits. It's getting too dark to see.

"Come on, you three - let's get inside and get cleaned up." Michael says, carefully replacing the sledge hammer and splitting maul back in the tool shed.

Vic gratefully follows Michael back into the house and into the kitchen. There, they both carefully wash their hands in the sink, wincing as the warm water and soap penetrates their open blisters. As they dry their hands, Mike Jr. and Will wash up.

_What I wouldn't give for a_ real _shower!_ Vic says to himself, lighting his way with a small candle as he wearily climbs the stairs to the attic loft that he was using for a bedroom. He quickly stripped off his soaking wet clothes, hanging them carefully to dry, and pulled dry clothes out of his suitcase.

Dressing quickly in a t-shirt and jeans, he takes the small candle and carefully descends the stairs to the first floor, and into the kitchen. He sees his mother carefully carrying a steaming pot from the living room fireplace into the kitchen and catches a whiff of something that makes his mouth water.

"Chili?" He asks hopefully.

"Close," his mother answers with a smile. "Charlotte had some beans soaking since this morning, and Nicole made a sauce from her tomatoes. The meat is from last night - I cut it up really small and browned it in a little oil before adding it to the soup."

Vic feels his stomach rumble in anticipation as he watches his mother carefully stir the contents of the big pot.  _There may even be enough for seconds tonight!_  He says to himself.

"Vic, would you take the water and glasses to the dining table, please?" his mother asks.

"Sure, Mom." Vic takes seven glasses from the cupboard and fills them all from a water pitcher standing on the counter, then takes the full glasses and the pitcher to the dining table. On the way he encounters Nicole, the Everdeens shy, dark haired, pretty fifteen year old daughter, as she busies herself setting the table, and finds himself blushing as they brush past each other.

"Excuse me," Vic mutters, embarrassed.

"Sorry, Vic," Nicole says quietly, quickly looking down.

Quickly the table is set and Charlotte Everdeen places three candles in their holders on the table and lights them from the taper from the kitchen. The kids and Michael Everdeen sit at the table as Victoria Hawthorne and Charlotte Everdeen bring out filled bowls, setting a steaming bowl in front of each person at the table, before sitting down.

Dinner was a quiet affair, the only sounds made were those of spoons against bowls as the five Everdeens and two Hawthornes hungrily ate their soup. The only conversation was when Victoria asked if anyone would like a second bowl - which everyone did. This time, she brings the pot to the table and carefully ladles out the remains of the soup for everyone.

"That's it, I'm afraid," Victoria says apologetically as the last ladle-full goes into Wills bowl.

The rest of dinner was eaten in silence, and afterwards, everyone sat quietly for a moment, hunger pangs temporarily sated - but everyone wishing there was more.

"I spoke to Paul Undersee today," Michael says.

"Oh?" Charlotte says. "Any word on food shipments?"

"No," her husband says wearily. "Apparently our esteemed Mayor has been missing now for over a week, the local military detachment has more problems than we do on keeping their troops fed and sheltered, and Paul is trying to both run the town and be Chief of Police. At least his police are still, well, policing."

"Looks like you boys laid in a good supply of wood today," Charlotte says, changing the subject deftly and smiling at her husband.

"I had some good help," Michael says, glancing over at Vic. "We made a good team. Good thing we had that wood already cut and seasoned, though. Green wood's a lot harder to split."

"I hope it lasts for a while," Vic found himself saying, gingerly rubbing his blistered hands together. Although the weather wasn't really cold, even with the incessant rain, the fireplace was their only means of cooking now that power wasn't reliable. They hadn't had electricity for over two days now, although the local power company representative assured everyone that they were "working on a fix."

"Don't worry about it, Vic," Michael says, holding up his own blistered hands. "Pretty soon we'll both have a layer of callus!"

"Just what I always wanted," Vic mutters quietly, looking down at his empty bowl.  _I sure wish Dad was here._

"Mike, Will - can you please help your sister and I, and Mrs. Hawthorne, in clearing the table and doing dishes tonight?" Charlotte asks. The two boys grumble but both nod sullenly.

"Come on in the living room, Vic," Michael says. "I have something for you."

Curious, Vic follows Michael into the living room. Michael opens a cabinet and extracts a bottle and two glasses, and carefully pours a small amount of liquid into each glass. He hands a glass to Vic and raises his own.

"Vic, that's sixteen year old Tennessee whisky. I figure doing a man's work entitles you to a man's drink. Just sip it slowly - I'm sure you aren't used to it." Michael takes a sip of his drink and sighs appreciatively.

Unsure, Vic brings his glass to his lips and takes a small, careful sip. Swallowing, he coughed once as the unfamiliar liquor burns down his throat, but relaxes as the warmth hits his belly and spreads pleasantly outward.

Both men sit in the living room, illuminated by a single candle, and sip their drinks until both glasses were empty. Michael takes Vic's glass from him and sets both on the cabinet.

Vic felt that warm glow all over his body as Michael says, "Now, that's just between you and I. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," Vic says. "And Mr. Everdeen? Thanks."

Michael Everdeen smiles at the young man. "It's Michael, Vic. Or Mike. And you're welcome." Michael picks up the empty glasses and carries them into the kitchen.

Vic sits in the gloom, staring out the window into the darkness. He can hear the rain beating against the window pane. Behind him, he can hear Mrs. Everdeen order Mike Jr. and Will to get ready for bed.

"Vic?" his mother says softly.

"Mom?" he replies.

Victoria comes in and sits next to her son on the couch. "How are your hands?" she asks.

Vic flexes his fingers, wincing a little. "I'll live. Like Michael says, I'll grow calluses."

"Michael?" Victoria says with a laugh. "When did you start calling him that?"

"Tonight," Vic replies. "He told me to. Mom, I like them. All of them. But I miss Dad a lot." Vic blinks furiously, trying to hold back tears. He's successful - this time.

"I know. I do too. But the Everdeens think that he's okay in Cheyenne Mountain." Victoria says.

"Yeah," Vic says. After a few minutes, Victoria gets up, and, after telling her son not to stay up too late, goes to her room. Only then does Vic let his tears come.

Vic sits and quietly cries for a while, wiping his hands across his eyes every so often, angry with himself for acting like a baby. He doesn't hear the soft footsteps entering the living room.

"Vic?" Nicole's quiet voice causes Vic to jump, startled.

"Yeah," Vic replies, furiously wiping at his eyes.

"I - well, that is - my Mom was putting this on my Dad's hands and - would you like to try it?" Nicole stammers, holding out a bottle.

"What is it?" Vic asks.

"Some sort of ointment, or liniment." Nicole answers, sitting next to Vic on the couch. "Let me see your hands."

Reluctantly Vic holds one hand out to Nicole as she moves the lone candle closer and examines his hand.

"Vic! Those are really bad!" she exclaims, pouring some of the ointment carefully into a wad of cotton, then taking his hand firmly in hers.

"This may sting - I'm sorry," Nicole says as she carefully applies the ointment to Vic's hand. Vic flinches and Nicole hears his sharp intake of breath, but he holds his hand steady. She quickly repeats the process with his other hand, getting the same response, then puts the cap back on the bottle.

"There. All done," she says. Vic flexes his fingers experimentally.

"Did it help?" Nicole asks hopefully.

"I'm not sure," Vic replies. "But at least they don't feel worse. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Nicole replies, setting the bottle and cotton on the table next to the couch.

"I - I guess I should get to bed too," Vic says, standing up. Nicole puts a hand on his arm.

"Vic, wait." Nicole gently pulls his arm and says, "Sit. Please." Vic slowly sits back on the couch.

"What is it?" Vic asks. Nicole looks at him for several seconds before replying

"Can I ask you something?" She finally asks.

"S-Sure," Vic stammers in reply.

"I saw - I mean, heard - were you crying earlier?" Nicole asks.

"No!" Vic replies emphatically, then almost immediately, "Yes."

"I - I cry too," Nicole admits. Vic glances over at her, but in the dim candlelight he can only see her silhouette clearly.

"It's different with you," Vic says gruffly. "You're a girl. Men aren't supposed to cry."

"Says who?" Nicole asks sharply. "For your information, I've heard my Dad crying. Late at night. My Mom too."

"Your Dad?" Vic asks incredulously. "But he - he's -"

"A Senator? A 'man?' I don't think any of that matters - not any more." Nicole replies. "I guess I should go to bed. Goodnight." Nicole stands up but Vic grabs her hand urgently.

"Nicole - wait." Vic says. "I - I'm sorry. About all that shit about men not crying. I - I'm just so scared...and I miss my Dad." Nicole hesitates but remains standing.

"I'm scared too, Vic," she says. "All the time. Even before - that Day." There was no need to elaborate on exactly what "that Day" was.

"Try living with an astronomer," Vic says. "Every day since January I could tell just by looking at him that it - this - was gonna be bad. I really miss him." The last part was said almost in a whisper.

Nicole sits back down on the couch next to Vic. "I know you do." she says gently. "I'm sure he's okay though - in Cheyenne Mountain and all."

A sudden flash of lighting, followed almost immediately by a loud thunderclap, caused both kids to jump suddenly.

"I hate this rain," Nicole says suddenly. "And the hurricanes - the hurricanes were the worst. I hate thunder!" Just then, another loud thunderclap shakes the house and Nicole instinctively presses closer against Vic, who awkwardly puts one arm around her slender shoulders.

The next few minutes saw the lightning storm intensify as thunder pealed almost continuously. Nicole buries her face in Vic's chest and wraps her arms around him as he clumsily put his other arm around her. Gradually Vic becomes aware of Nicole shuddering slightly against him and he realizes that she's crying quietly.

_She's crying! What do I do now?_ Vic has almost no experience with girls, let alone one as pretty as Nicole. He keeps his arms around her and holds her while she cries.

"I feel so stupid," Nicole's muffled voice rises up from Vic's chest. "Crying like a little kid 'cause of some stupid thunder!" Another loud thunderclap causes Nicole to jerk again, tightening her arms around Vic.

"I'll make a deal with you," Vic says. "I won't feel stupid when I cry if you won't feel stupid when you cry. Okay?" Vic looks down at her dim shape. He can just make out her face in the sputtering candlelight.

Nicole laughs, sniffing back tears as she raises her tear-stained face to look at Vic. "Okay, deal."

Vic pulls his hand out from behind her and holds it out? "Shake on it?"

Nicole looks up at Vic, her eyes shining. "No," she whispers, raising her face up and kissing Vic on the side of his mouth. Vic, startled, jerks away reflexively.

"Don't," Nicole breathes. "Come back here." Vic feels her hand slide around to the back of his head, preventing him from moving away. Nicole kisses him again, this time full on his mouth. Vic feels his heart pounding in his chest as he slides his arm back around the petite, dark haired girl, returning her kiss eagerly.

Nicole's arms tighten around Vic's neck and Vic feels her lips part slightly, followed by the tip of her tongue gently tracing his lips. With a sigh, Vic opens his own mouth against hers, shyly touching his tongue to her lips. Nicole moans in the back of her throat and presses herself even closer to Vic.

And, for the next half hour or so, Vic Hawthorne and Nicole Everdeen forget to be scared.


	10. DAY TO DAY

**CHAPTER 10 - DAY TO DAY**

**HEAVENSBEE COMPOUND - OUTSIDE FALCON, COLORADO - ONE MONTH AFTER COMET FALL**

Elliott Heavensbee squats in the mud, forlornly examining the rotting half-mature corn stalks that lay before him, flattened into the ground by the incessant rain. He barely feels the water trickling down his neck as he fishes a rotting ear of corn out of the mud and flings it away in disgust.

Elliott stands slowly, feeling his joints crack as he straightens his legs, and surveys the rest of his property. In spite of his best efforts he, along with his partners in the group they called "The Enclave," had lost a significant portion of the vegetables that they had been growing. Not only corn, but potatoes, carrots, green beans, tomatoes, squash, onion...most everything they had under cultivation was now rotting in a disgusting muddy soup. Most of what they had been growing simply had not been ready to be harvested.

_This fucking rain,_  Elliott says to himself bitterly.  _A month now and it's_ still  _raining!_  The one commodity that they didn't lack was water. Elliott walks slowly back to the Compound, feeling the mud squish under his boots with every step. Elliott's compound mirrored those of his partners, the Trinket and Flickerman families. Converted shipping containers, stacked two high and arranged in a square, with space left for a vehicle gate and a smaller pedestrian gate. The containers had been converted to living quarters, utility rooms, and storage.

Elliott slips through the pedestrian gate, out of the rain for a moment, then enters the inner square that he calls the Courtyard. A water tower and wind turbine for electricity jutted from the ground. Vehicles and livestock were kept in the Courtyard as well, and -

_Livestock!_  Elliott grins slightly. His property was completely fenced in, with several acres of damaged and rotting produce being beaten into the mud. Unfit for people -  _But for pigs and goats? Only one way to find out!_  Elliott steps over to a large metal triangle hanging near one of the metal stairways leading to the second level, grabs a straight metal rod, and starts beating on the triangle.

_Clang, clang, clang._  Pause.  _Clang, clang, clang._ Pause.  _Clang, clang, clang._  Three strikes of the triangle, followed by a pause, then three more, repeated as necessary - a non-emergency signal that means "I need some help." Elliott was just about to give the signal again when he heard a voice from the second level.

"Dad?" His oldest daughter, Justine, calls out from above. She was twenty-three and had been about to enter pre-med at UCLA...before the comet strike. She got her strawberry blonde hair from her father, and her striking good looks from her mother.  _Thank God for that,_  Elliott had mused on more than one occassion. Elliott was himself a rather ordinary looking man, somewhat paunchy (although his paunch had been steadily disappearing since comet fall), with a fleshy, somewhat florid face.

"Need some help, honey," Elliott replies, looking up and finding his daughter peering down at him from the second level catwalk.

"Lemme grab Kacey and we'll be right down," she says, disappearing back into the module she had been in. Kacey was Justine's younger sister, just eighteen and recently graduated from high school. She had been set to start the University of Colorado in Colorado Springs. Unlike her older sister, Kacey had been having a difficult time adjusting to this new life that the comet had forced upon them all.

There was a sudden clatter of footsteps meeting metal stairs as the two girls, dressed against the weather like their father, quickly joined Elliott in the Courtyard.

"What's up?" Justine asks her father.

"I need help with the pigs and goats," Elliott quickly explains his plan to the girls, then all three turn to the task of opening the pens and herding the pigs and goats out of the Courtyard and through the now open vehicle gate. The goats weren't much of a problem, but the pigs took some coaxing. Eventually Elliott had to fish a couple of corn stalks out of the muck and lay a trail outside the gate, using ears of corn that he pulled off the stalks to lure the pigs out.

The livestock were hungry, just like their human owners. Elliott had been carefully rationing their feed, all the while mentally cursing himself for not laying in a larger supply.  _These crops are ruined,_ he says to himself.  _For us anyway. But goats and pigs will eat just about anything!_

That proved to be the case as the both the pigs and goats soon turned to happily munching on the remains of the drowned Heavensbee garden. Elliott grins, watching the goats almost delicately pulling up greens while the pigs were snout deep in mud, noisily eating ears of corn.

_One crisis temporarily averted,_  Elliott says to himself. He turns toward his two daughters.

"Do you two feel like taking a quick ride over to the Trinket and Flickerman compounds? Let them know how to put their ruined produce to work?" Elliott asks. Kacey, who up until this time had been rather glumly going about the task of helping her father and sister, immediately brightens at the prospect. Justine readily agrees - she was her father's daughter through and through - and grins slyly while sharing a look with Elliott at Kacey's sudden mood change.

_Steve Trinket,_ Elliott says to himself.  _No one else could change Kacey's mood that quickly._ Steve was the Trinket's oldest child, nineteen years old. _Well, she could do a lot worse._

Kacey and Steve had hit it off immediately. Neither had been thrilled with their respective parents' decisions about building the Enclave out here in the middle of nowhere. And, although neither would admit it, they both had been seeing each other exclusively for over a year.  _If that's not "going together," I don't know what is,_  Elliott says to himself.

Elliott had to admit that Kacey and Steve made a very good looking couple. Kacey was a younger version of her sister, while Steve was athletic and darkly handsome. Steve had just completed his freshman year at Colorado Springs when the comet had struck, and Elliott knew that both kids had been looking forward to attending the same university together. If only...

Elliott watches the girls leading their horses out of the pre-fab barn. Since the impact, Elliott had been very careful about fuel usage. Even though everything was hydrogen powered, the portable cracking plant that was shared by the Heavensbee, Trinket, and Flickerman families could only produce small quantities at a time, even though water as the raw material was certainly not an issue. All the Enclave members agreed to not use any motorized transport except in emergencies - which this certainly was not.

Elliott made his way to the outer gate to unlock and open it for the girls, who had now mounted up and were walking their horses towards the gate. As the girls approached the gate, Elliott called up some last minute instructions.

"Now remember, be sure to let them know about using their ruined produce for feed, and don't take - wait a minute. Girls, where's your guns?" Elliott directed his question at both girls, but it was Justine - the older of the two - that he was looking at.

"Dad, we'll be at the Trinket's in a few minutes!" Justine argued. "We don't need to be packing guns for something like that!"

"You know the rules, Justine," Elliott says firmly. "You don't leave the property unarmed. If I had my way, I wouldn't let you  _outside_  unarmed, but your mother overruled me on that one. Now both of you - back to the Compound and grab your pistol belts!"

Elliott stood by the gate as the sisters, grumbling, turned their horses around and headed back to the Compound. He watched as Justine dismounted, handed her reins to her sister, and disappeared through the pedestrian gate. She reappeared a couple of minutes later and handed Kacey a gun belt, then remounted her horse, her own gun belt strapped securely around her waist. Together the girls walked their horses back to the gate.

"Satisfied?" Justine asks in a flat voice.

"Much better," Elliott says, ignoring his daughters tone as he rolls the gate open. "Now remember what I said - deliver the message and don't take all day! I'll need help later on getting the livestock penned back up."

"You could always ask Mom - or Craig," Kacey says, a defiant tone to her voice.

"Kace, the only reason I'm letting you tag along with Justine is so you can see Steve. Don't push it, little girl!" Elliott fires back at her.

"Okay, okay! Sorry, Dad!" Kacey replies, not sounding all that sorry, following her sister through the gate.

"I'm sure you are," Elliott replies dryly, rolling the gate closed, but leaving it unlocked. He stands in the rain as he watches the girls break their horses into an easy canter as they head toward the Trinket Compound, then slowly walks back to his own Compound.

* * *

Later, Elliott is sitting in the second level Kitchen Module, fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. His fingers are chilled - in addition to the incessant rain, it's unseasonably cool. He remembered watching a news program that had said that global temperatures would drop significantly following impact from the amount of dust and debris thrown into the atmosphere, plus the thick layer of cloud reflecting the suns rays away from the Earth.

_An early winter. Just one more thing to worry about. Well, if this damn rain would let up and if we get some sun, we can start in building our greenhouses, and then maybe we'll end up with some vegetables after -_

The sound of someone climbing the stairs outside intruded on his thoughts. He went over to the Courtyard window and saw Kacey heading down towards the module that contained her bedroom, while Justine was headed towards the Kitchen Module.

"You're back early," Elliott says as his daughter enters the module. Justine doesn't answer immediately but instead pours herself a cup of coffee. She carries the coffee over to the small table and sits down with her father. Elliott could read his daughter's moods expertly and knew that something was bothering her.

"Okay, what's going on?" he asks.

"The Army's on its way over here," she replies. "They were at the Trinket place earlier, and were still at the Flickerman Compound when we left."

"The Army?" Elliott asks. "What do they want?"

"They're confiscating food!" Justine blurts out. "Not only food, but other things - batteries, hydrogen, fuel oil, seed, livestock feed, ammunition - you name it!"

"What? Why?" Elliott shoots out of his chair, almost knocking it over in his haste.

"Some pompous officer gave Mr. Flickerman a written order," Justine replies. "Something about 'Redistribution of Consumables and Critical Supplies.' Said that the Army would send trucks out in three days to pick up 'excess' items, and warned Mr. Flickerman that there were serious penalties for 'hoarding.'"

"Oh, hell no!" Elliott says angrily. "That's  _my_  personal property! Bought and paid for! And a lot of that food we grew and canned ourselves! I'll be  _fucked_  if I'm gonna let the Army just waltz in here and take everything!"

Just then Elliott and Justine could hear the high pitched whine of several hydrogen motors, getting louder as they drew nearer.

"They're here," Justine says needlessly.

"I can see that, darlin'," Elliott says. "Go get your sister - and your brother - and see about rounding up the livestock. I'll deal with the Army."

As Justine leaves to gather up her siblings to round up the livestock still feeding on their ruined produce, Elliott pulls on his rain slicker, gulps down the rest of his coffee, and walks out of the Kitchen Module to head down to the gate and deal with the Army.

* * *

As Elliott walked through the muck towards the gate, he could see three vehicles parked on the road leading onto his property. An Army Command vehicle was in the lead, followed by a Stryker Combat Vehicle and an El Paso County Sheriff's Department car. As Elliott sauntered up to his fence, he could see a figure standing impatiently by the gate.

His heart pounding, Elliott approaches his gate. He can hear his three grown children behind him gathering up and herding the livestock back into their pens in the Courtyard.

"Can I help you?" Elliott asks as he stops at the gate.

"Mr. Elliott Heavensbee?" The uniformed figure asks.

"Doctor," Elliott replies.

"I beg your pardon?" The soldier says.

"It's Doctor. I still have my license even though I'm not in active practice," Elliott explains patiently. Elliott examines the soldier on the other side of the gate. He was young - mid twenties - wearing the bar of a First Lieutenant. His helmet and field gear that we was wearing looked clean, almost new.  _Desk jockey,_  Elliott says to himself contemptuously.  _This is probably the first time he's left the Mountain._

"Oh. Well. 'Doctor' Elliott Heavensbee?" The officer asks huffily.

"What do you want, Lieutenant?" Elliott asks warily.

"Doctor, I know that your daughters got her ahead of us," the Lieutenant says tiredly. "So I know that you already know why I'm here. So what do you say we don't waste each others time, Would you please unlock and open the gate so we can talk?"

Elliott was slightly taken aback by the officers direct approach, and didn't answer right away. When he recovered from his surprise, he uttered just one word. "No."

"Say again, Doctor?" The Lieutenant says in surprise.

"I said 'no,' Lieutenant," Elliott says calmly.

"Doctor, I don't think you appreciate the urgency of our situation. The refugee camps are starting to run out of everything. We're starting to face shortages inside the Security Zone. The government has had...unforeseen difficulties in re-establishing lines of communication outside the Security Zone. Believe me, President Cray didn't authorized these measures lightly."

"And if I refuse to let you in?" Elliott asks.

"Doctor, this order," the Lieutenant holds up a laminated document, "authorizes me to use whatever force I deem appropriate, up to and including the use of deadly force, to accomplish my mission. I have a fully equipped infantry squad here to back me up - and the El Paso County Sheriff is on hand to arrest and take into custody anyone who interferes with my mission.

Elliott was on the verge of telling the Lieutenant just where he could stick his signed order when a female voice calls out from the Stryker Combat Vehicle.

"Lieutenant?" The voice calls out.

"Sergeant Wise," the Lieutenant replies, never taking his eyes off of Elliott.

"Ell-tee, can I have a word with Doctor Heavensbee? I know him fairly well, and it'll only take a minute." Jamie Wise asks.

"Fine," the Lieutenant snaps. "I'll give you one minute, Sergeant Wise."

"Thanks, Ell-tee," Jamie says, sliding off the Stryker and running up to the gate, as the Lieutenant angrily walks back to his vehicle.

"Hello, Jamie," Elliott says warmly.

"Hey, Elliott," Jamie returns his warm smile. "Look, Lieutenant Cardeaux gave me one minute and believe me, he's got me on a watch. Elliott, you  _have_  to let him in. Trust me on this - the government isn't taking everything you own. They'll leave you with some food, seed, livestock feed, and consumables. What they want is the excess that they consider to be hoarding."

"Goddammit, Jamie, this smacks of taxation without representation! This stuff is  _mine_! What do I care about some refugees, anyway?" Elliott says angrily.

"Elliott, you're a doctor. Would you turn away someone sick or hurt?" Jamie asks gently.

"You know the answer, Jamie. I hold my oath to be sacred." Elliott replies gruffly.

"Cardeaux isn't happy about doing this," Jamie says. "But it's only temporary. Please let him in and talk to him. I don't want to have to fire on someone I consider a friend." Jamie is almost pleading by this time.

Elliott mulls it over. Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise has always dealt with him fairly and honestly. He regards the young sergeant as she mops futility at her dark face with an OD green bandana around her neck.

"Okay," Elliott says finally, giving Jamie a rueful grin before turning back to Lieutenant Cardeaux. Elliott unlocks the gate and starts to roll it open.

"Alright, Lieutenant," he says resignedly. "Come on it. But just you and Sergeant Wise. I don't want your vehicles rolling over what's left of my crops. I'm using them to feed my livestock."

"Thank you, Doctor," Cardeaux says formally, as he and Jamie Wise step through the gate and fall in step with Elliott as they walk up to the Compound. "And - for what it's worth - I am sorry about this. I'm just following my orders."

"Just like the Nazis at Auschwitz," Elliott mutters to himself. "'Just following orders.'"

* * *

The meeting doesn't take very long. In three days' time, trucks would arrive to cart away those items deemed "excess." Before then, however, Elliott and his family would be visited by a team to inventory his consumables and livestock, and a nutritionist who would calculate the calorie intake that the Heavensbee family would need on a daily basis.

"There's a very sizeable cache of grain and fuel oil under our control nearby," Lieutenant Cardeaux explains. "They're both part of the National Grain and Petroleum Reserve. It's really the only consumables that we have in abundance. Once your excess has be re-distributed, your family will be eligible for a monthly ration of grain and fuel oil from these Reserves, regardless of how much food and other consumables that we allow you to retain under your control. The grain and fuel ration is determined by size of household."

"How generous," Elliott says sarcastically, earning a warning look from his wife.

"Elliott! Lieutenant Cardeaux is just doing his job!" Katharine Heavensbee chides her husband.

"I know, I know. This whole deal just stinks!" Elliott says angrily.

"Doctor, being as you possess a critical skill, you may be eligible for an Occupational Exemption. This means you'd be able to retain a larger share of consumables. I've mentioned this to Mr. and Mrs. Trinket as well as Mr. and Mrs. Flickerman. Those with skills in the Medical, Law Enforcement, Military, and Aviation fields can get a larger share." Cardeaux explains. "Mrs. Heavensbee, what was your pre-impact occupation?"

Katharine Heavensbee chuckles lightly. "Science fiction writer," she says with a smile. "I'm sure that's not on your critical occupation list." Katharine, a popular science fiction (writing under a pseudonym) author before the comet strikes, was still an attractive woman even in middle age, with the light complexion and freckles of a natural redhead. She was slim and athletic, and it was easy to see where her kids got their athleticism from.

"Ma'am, I'll pass that on up the chain. There's a group called 'The Brain Trust' whose job it is to basically think up ways to speed up our Recovery. Perhaps you could get on that. Like I said, I'll pass it on up the chain," Cardeaux says.

"That does sound interesting," Katharine muses softly.

"I'll leave a copy of all this with you, Doctor - Mrs. Heavensbee," Cardeaux says, standing up. "Ready, Sergeant Wise? We still have some calls to make."

"Ready, Ell-tee," Jamie stands up and adjusts her gear. Cardeaux offers his hand to Elliott, who takes it after just a moments' hesitation.

"Again, sir, I'm not happy about this. But I do appreciate your cooperation." Cardeaux says, giving Elliott a firm handshake.

"I understand, Lieutenant," Elliott says tiredly.

Cardeaux gives Elliott a tight smile, then turns and offers his hand to Katharine. "Ma'am," he says, shaking her hand, then flicking his eyes towards Jamie. She nods, quickly says goodbye to Elliott and Katharine, then both soldiers exit the Kitchen Module, followed by Elliott and Katharine.

Elliott and Katharine walk to the gate and securely lock it, and watch the small convoy drive away, disappearing up the road. Only then do they trudge back to the Compound.

**HEAVENSBEE COMPOUND - OUTSIDE FALCON, COLORADO - THREE DAYS LATER**

Elliott, along with Bobby Trinket and Stu Flickerman, watch as the large general purpose prime mover pull slowly away from the Heavensbee Compound, heavily laden with all manner of supplies that had be "re-distributed" from his carefully maintained supplies. Food, fuel, batteries, ammunition, livestock feed - not to mention actual livestock - seed, lubricating oils, even a good portion of the liquor stock he had laid in - all of it was sitting in the back of the truck and the large trailer it was pulling. The big eight-wheeled vehicle rolled carefully back to the gate, where Craig was standing by to close and lock it as soon as it was through.

Lieutenant Cardeaux had been true to his word. The Re-Distribution Team had come out a couple of days before. Elliott, Craig, and Justine had worked with the soldiers actually conducting the inventory, while Katharine and Kacey consulted with the nutritionist about their families' nutrition needs over the next several months.

"You folks have it better than most," the Sergeant in charge of the team had said. "You still have some electricity available, hot water, and you'll still have a good supply of food and other consumables even after we're done here."

_Done ste_ a _ling, you mean_ , is the thought that goes through Elliott's mind, but all he said was, "Well, that's what comes from living off the grid."

Still, there had been one unexpected surprise. It turned out that Elliott was, in fact, eligible for an Occupational Exemption, which meant that he would be allowed to keep an additional twenty five percent of consumables that were earmarked for Re-Distribution. In talking with his Enclave partners he discovered that they, too, were eligible as well - Bobby and Julia Trinket with their Law Enforcement background, Stu Flickerman's status as a single and multi engine hoverplane pilot, and Trudy Flickerman as a trauma nurse.

Elliott had already set up one of his shipping modules as a combination office/examination room/minor surgery suite. Trudy had agreed to assist him with her nursing skills. Elliott was informed by the Re-Distribution Sergeant that a Medical Officer from Cheyenne Mountain would come out soon to assess what medical supplies he would need to operate a clinic.

Bobby and Julia had been informed that a representative from the El Paso County Sheriff's Department would contact them in a day or so to give them assistance and advice in forming what would in effect be a volunteer militia, consisting mostly of the rural residents around the Falcon area.

The Re-Distribution Sergeant had enthusiastically examined the single engine hoverplane that Stu owned, and Stu was informed that an Aviation Officer from Cheyenne Mountain would be in touch, and that the hoverplane was "perfect" for "short range missions" in the immediate area.

The three men watch the big prime mover roll through the gate, which Craig immediately rolls shut and locks. Elliott looks at his two partners and says, "C'mon. I'll buy you both a drink."

The men wait for Craig to join them, then the foursome trudge back to the Compound in silence. Elliott and Stu had met up at the Trinket Compound first thing that morning when the Re-Distribution Team had showed up, then, along with Bobby, had moved on over to the Flickerman Compound, and finally to the Teams last stop, the Heavensbee Compound.

The three men had traveled between their Compounds by ATV, deciding that keeping a watchful eye on the Army warranted the expenditure of hydrogen. Bobby and Stu had left their ATV's parked just inside the vehicle gate, while Elliot had rolled his back into the storage building/garage behind the Compound.

The four men climb the metal stairs to the upper level and enter the module that Elliott calls the Living Room. The four carefully remove their muddy boots before entering, padding into the room wearing damp socks. Elliott opens a sideboard and removes several bottles and glasses, setting everything on top of the sideboard. He waves his hand at the bottles.

"No ice, and no mix except water," he says. "Help yourselves."

Without waiting for the others, Elliott grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels and pours a healthy drink for himself. He watches as the others pour their drinks - Bobby opting for the John Jameson, Stu the Johnnie Walker, and Craig the Grey Goose. When everyone had poured their drink, Elliott raises his glass.

"To Re-Distribution," he says sarcastically, "Where now everyone has an equal opportunity to eventually starve."

"To the last liquor in the world," Bobby says, taking a slow sip of his drink.

"To The Enclave," Stu says, "And to being forced from retirement to work for what's already ours to begin with."

The men sip their drinks thoughtfully, the Elliott looks at his son. "Nothing to add, Craig?"

"Just wondering what's taking Mom so long," Craig says. "They should have been done by now." Katharine, along with Justine and Kacey, had gone over to help Julia Trinket re-organize following their Re-Distribution - and, of course, to give Kacey a chance to spend a little time with Steve Trinket. From there, Katharine and Justine, along with Julia Trinket and their seventeen year old daughter, Sarah, were to head to the Flickerman place - leaving Kacey and Steve alone for a while. Now, everyone was expecting Katharine and Justine, along with Julia Trinket, as well as Trudy and Tamara Flickerman (Sarah Trinket would stay with Connor Flickerman as part of Enclave Rule Number One: Two people with each Compound at all times - not that either Sarah or Connor would complain about being left in each others' company) to show up at the Heavensbee Compound to finish the last of the Re-Distribution re-organizing.

"Yeah, I know," Elliott says. "I knew we should have gone out with portables today."

"Why waste batteries?" Bobby says. "On foot we're less than 10 minutes from each other, and much less than that on ATV or horseback."

"Bobby, I think Elliott has a good point," Stu says, chiming in. "Times are different now. Remember what the soldiers that were just here were saying? About the troubles in the refugee camps? Some of that's bound to spill over into communities like Falcon - even the Springs is having their share of problems."

"Oh, sure, eventually, maybe -" Bobby begins, only to have Craig shush him frantically.

"Quiet!" Craig barks. The three older men look at Craig, bemused.

"What?" Elliott asks.

"Listen! There it is again!" The three older men then heard what Craig's sharper hearing had already picked up - a series of popping sounds, coming from the general direction of the Flickerman Compound.

Bobby looks at the others in alarm. "Gunshots!" He exclaims.

Without another word the four men head in unison for the door, pausing to pull on their boots and rain jackets. The quickly clamber down the metallic stairway to the Courtyard. None of them needed to grab weapons - they were all carrying pistols in hip or shoulder rigs as a matter of habit.

Bobby and Stu head for their ATV's while Craig runs awkwardly across the muddy field to unlock the gate. Elliott heads to the garage and fires up two ATV's - his and Craig's, then rolls out of the opened double doors towards the gate. Before leaving the garage, however, he grabs four small portable radios and stuffs them in his pockets.

Elliott races to the gate, now unlocked and open. He gestures for Craig to get on the back of his ATV, intending to take him back to the garage, but before he goes he turns to Bobby and Stu and hands each a portable.

"Channel Three. You two head out. Craig and I'll be right behind you." Elliott knew they were breaking the First Rule - but those gunshots were close.

As it turned out, they never made it out of the gate. Craig was mounting up on his ATV when their radios crackled.

"Elliott! Craig! Stand down! We met up with the women! We're coming back in! Stand by the gate!" Stu's voice sounded frantic - almost panicked.

"Copy. Standing by," Elliott replied and looked over at his son. The two men shrugged and both gunned their ATV's out of the garage toward the gate. Once at the gate Craig quickly dismounted and rolled the gate back open. By this time they could see the group approaching - Bobby and Stu on ATV's, the rest of the group on horseback. But - something seemed to be wrong. One of the riders was slumped over, not even holding the reins, but instead had her arms wrapped loosely around the neck of her horse.

Elliott felt his mouth go dry when he recognized the horse. Without realizing it, he started to shake his head.

"No," he says in a voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Dear God, no."

He could make out his wife, holding the reins of the other horse. Katharine was splattered with blood but sitting upright, and Elliott could see tear tracks on her face even through the rain.

Katharine spots Elliott and screams out. "Elliott! Help!" As they draw closer Elliott's worst fears were confirmed - but Katharine's next statement put an exclamation point to his confirmation.

"Oh, Elliott! They shot Justine!"


	11. CHANGING TIMES

**CHAPTER 11 - CHANGING TIMES**

**HEAVENSBEE COMPOUND - OUTSIDE FALCON, COLORADO - THIRTY FOUR DAYS AFTER COMET FALL**

"Get her inside!" Elliott barks, as he holds open the door to his small clinic. Craig, Bobby, Stu and Katharine carefully maneuver the makeshift litter - nothing more than a heavy-duty poncho that each of them grips at the corners - bearing the limp, bleeding body of Elliott's oldest daughter, Justine, through the open door and toward the examination table.

As they lift Justine onto the table, Trudy Flickerman adjusts the light above the table and examines the small instrument tray next to the table. She pours alcohol into a metal basin and grabs a box of sterile gloves.

Elliott closes the door and walks over to the table. Swallowing heavily, he gazes down at the still form of his daughter, feeling hot tears forming in his eyes.  _Not now!_ He says to himself angrily.  _She needs you now! Later - when it's over..._

"Elliott?" Trudy's voice intrudes on his thoughts. He glances over at her. She indicates the alcohol filled basin.

"I know it's not a proper scrub, but -" she says apologetically.

"No time," Elliott says brusquely, dipping his hands into the alcohol, then drying them quickly and slipping on a pair of sterile gloves. As Trudy quickly washes her own hands Elliott turns to his wife and friends.

"It would be best if you all waited someplace else," he says quietly.

"Elliott -" Katharine begins, but Elliott shakes his head emphatically at his wife.

"You too, Kath," he says gently, pulling a mask over his nose and mouth. Katharine hesitates for just a moment more, then nods once and leaves with the others.

Elliott turns back to the table, where Trudy, masked in the same manner as Elliott, fastens a blood pressure cuff around Justine's arm and begins inflating the cuff as she take a body temperature reading. The vital signs monitor beeps loudly.

"Temp is 36 C, pulse 111, pressure is 90 over 50." Trudy recites in a steady voice.

"She's in shock. Let's get rid of the shirt," Elliott says. Trudy nods and begins cutting the shirt away with a pair of scissors. As she works, Justine's eyes suddenly snap open, her body jerks violently, and a moaning, bubbling scream bursts from her mouth.

"Morphine!" Elliott snaps, holding his bucking daughter on the table. "Five milligrams, stat!"

"Jus, easy, baby," Elliott murmurs to his jerking daughter. Crying now, she coughs violently, spraying Elliott with a fine, bloody mist. Trudy approaches with the syringe. Elliott grabs Justine's shoulders firmly and nods. With a practiced motion, Trudy wipes an alcohol swab down one arm and deftly inserts the needle. Justine begins to quiet within seconds, still crying but not jerking or bucking.

"Dad - it...it hurts," she moans. Elliott brushes her hair back away from her eyes as he bends over her supine form. Trudy finishes cutting the shirt open and she carefully peels it back, eliciting another moan from Justine.

Elliott examines the ugly, bleeding wound on the left side of his daughter's chest. His fingers probe gently around the wound. Trying to ignore his daughter's moans and gasps of pain, he glances up at Trudy.

"Trudy, start an IV. Five percent saline and plasma as well, and start her on Cipro."

"Yes, Doctor," Trudy answers, wheeling an IV tree next to the table and quickly hanging the bags. As Elliott's fingers gently probe around the wound, Trudy deftly inserts the IV needle and, with a practiced eye, starts the drip. Once the bags are dripping to her satisfaction she adds a syringe of Cipro to the drip to combat infection.

Elliott gently turns his daughter onto her side and runs his fingers down her back. He gently returns Justine to her supine position and straightens up.

"Sucking chest wound, through and through, possible pneumothorax," he announces.

Trudy nods and lays out pressure bandages and dressings. Elliott listens intently to Justine's chest with a stethoscope, then looks up and nods grimly.

"Definite pneumothorax, left lung," he says. Trudy approaches with a ready pressure bandage. "The exit wound first," Elliott says as he rolls Justine onto her side, trying - and failing - to ignore her moans of pain. Trudy quickly swabs the ugly, bleeding exit wound with betadine then slaps the pressure bandage over the bleeding hole and quickly wraps the ties around Justine's chest. She takes the plastic bandage wrapper and places it over the already blood soaked bandage and secures it in place with a gauze wrap. Elliott settles his daughter onto her back again as he and Trudy repeat the procedure with the entrance wound, placing the plastic wrapper over the top of the bandage and wrapping everything securely.

Elliott again listens to Justine's chest. He glances up and nods. "Better chest sounds but there's still too much air in there."

"Do you want to try to close the wounds?" Trudy asks.

Elliott laughs bitterly. "With what? She needs a trauma center. This ain't a trauma center." Suddenly Elliott's eyes light up and he turns to Trudy.

"Trudy, get her prepped for a chest tube and monitor her for pain - if she's too uncomfortable give her three more milligrams of morphine. I'll be right back." Elliott is out the door before Trudy can say a single word.

Elliott hurries down to the Second Level Kitchen Module. There he finds Stu, Bobby, Katharine, Craig, and the rest of the group, huddled together anxiously.

"Elliott?" Katharine's voice is thick with tension.

"She's alive, and we're working on stabilizing her." Elliott says as the group lets out a collective sigh of relief. "But she needs better care than we can give her here. Stu - how long would it take to get your hoverplane ready to fly?"

"We're five minutes from my place," Stu answers. "Twenty minutes for a real quick pre-flight, another five minutes to roll it out. Half hour."

"Okay, get it ready to go," Elliott orders. "Can you land behind my compound?"

"No problem. What's the destination?" Stu asks.

"The Security Zone," Elliott answers evenly.

"Elliott, you're nuts! That's restricted airspace! They'll blow us out of the sky!" Stu says emphatically.

"Not if they know we're coming," Elliott says. "Bobby, get on the radio. Our good Lieutenant Cardeaux left a list of Security Zone and Command Center frequencies. Find one that someone's on, call it, and tell them that we're on the way with one surgical patient. Lay it on thick, Bobby - tell them cooperation is a two way street, especially since they want Kath on their 'Brain Trust.'"

"You got it, Ell," Bobby says with a grin. "Radio still on the First level?"

"Yes," Elliott replies. "Go!" Bobby leaves without another word. Elliott turns to Stu and looks at him expectantly.

"Fine!" Stu snaps. "I'll need help to get my bird ready to go, though."

"Take Tamara and Craig," Elliott says. "And Stu? Thanks."

"At least a surface to air missile will be quick," Stu mutters as he leaves with Craig and Tamara.

Elliott turns back to Katharine. "I have to get back to Jus," he says apologetically. "We have to - there's a few more things we need to do before Stu gets back with his hoverplane."

Katharine looks at her husband - at the flecks of their daughter's blood on his face, arms and chest. Suddenly she stands up and grabs Elliott, kissing him firmly.

"Go," she says. "And Elliott? I love you."

"I love you, too, Kath," Elliott says, then turns and walks out the door without another word.

* * *

"Unidentified aircraft, this is Cheyenne Mountain Security Zone Air Control. Be advised that you've entered restricted airspace. Change your heading to Zero Niner-Five immediately. You will be fired on in thirty seconds if you fail to comply. Over."

Stu glances over his shoulder at Elliott. "Okay, Doc. Let's see if this magic code works."

Elliott nods grimly, staring down at the unconscious face of his daughter. Justine's mouth and nose are now covered by an oxygen mask, and only the slow, rhythmic fogging of the mask indicate that she's still breathing. Elliott glances over at Trudy, kneeling next to Justine. Trudy gives him a tight smile, then checks the IV drips again.

"Air Control, this is Kingair Tail Number November Zero Six One Niner Eight Five Kilo, a private hoverplane inbound with a medical emergency. Request landing instructions and a medical team. Clearance code One Delta Kilo Tango Eight Four. Over." Stu releases the push-to-talk button and waits for a response.  _As long as the response isn't a SAM!_ , he says to himself.

"Kingair Eight Five Kilo, stand by," the Air Control voice says.

"Roger," Stu replies. The hoverplane shudders suddenly from an unexpected cross wind and Stu curses under his breath as he fights the controls.

"Kingair Eight Five Kilo, clearance is granted. Change your heading to Two Six Zero. Land on Pad Foxtrot. State the nature of your medical emergency. Over." Air Control says.

"Control, stand by," Stu says. "Elliott, they want to know the nature of our emergency." Stu points to a headset with boom mike hanging on the cabin wall behind Elliott. "Use that headset."

Elliott fumbles with the headset and adjusts the boom mike over his mouth. "Ready!" he calls out to Stu. Stu gives him a thumbs up without turning around and taps a control pad to his right. Suddenly, Elliott can hear the headset come to life as he hears Stu's voice.

"Control, are you ready to copy? Over."

"Ready, Kingair. Go ahead. Over."

Stu glances over his shoulder at Elliott. "Okay, you're on."

Elliott fumbles briefly with the push-to-talk switch, then depresses it and starts talking. "Patient is female, twenty three years of age, one hundred sixty five centimeters, fifty-five kilos, with a through and through gunshot wound to the left chest. Patient is in shock and has been give eight milligrams of morphine for pain. Bleeding's been controlled. Definite pneumothorax of the left lung. Chest tube has been inserted and patient seems more comfortable. Patient's on oxygen at two liters per minute, and is on five percent saline IV and plasma IV and has been given Cipro for infection. Over."

"Field's in sight, Elliott. Thirty seconds." Stu calls out.

"Copy, Kingair. We have you on visual. Trauma team's standing by on Pad Foxtrot. Over."

"Roger. On final. Out." Stu flares the hoverplane and begins the final descent. Elliott glances up and sees a collection of olive drab dome-shaped tents connected by olive drab covered walkways through the rain-streaked windshield.

There's only a slight bump as the hoverplane settles to the ground and the high-pitched whine of the hydrogen engine changes pitch, sighing to a stop.

"Ell, can you get the door? I'm post-flighting," Stu calls out. Elliott nods needlessly as Stu intently examines his control panel, then goes about unlatching and pushing the door open.

The trauma team - all in U.S. Army uniforms - immediately takes charge of Justine. Both Elliott and Trudy de-plane with the team and quickly brief them on the nature of Justine's wound and her treatment thus far, as the team hurries towards the nearest dome tent.

The stretcher team pushes through a pair of swinging doors, while the team leader - a young Army Captain - stops Elliott and Trudy at the door.

"Sir - ma'am - I'm sorry, but this area is authorized trauma personnel only," the Captain says firmly.

"Young man - Captain - I'm her father.  _And_  a doctor. And this lady is my trauma nurse. I think -" Elliott begins, but the Captain interrupts him politely, but firmly.

"Then, Doctor, please let us do our job," the Captain says. "Look, I know you're worried. We'll keep you updated, I promise. Okay?"

"Do I have a choice?" Elliott asks bitterly.

"I'm afraid not, sir," the Captain says politely. At that moment an Air Force Security Detail approaches, accompanied by Stu Flickerman.

"Mr. Heavensbee? Mrs. Flickerman? Would you come with us, please?" The Sergeant in charge inquires politely.

"I can't leave," Elliott replies brusquely. "My daughter is in there -" he indicates the tent with a jerk of his thumb "- and I'm not going anywhere until I know her status."

"Doctor, I promise to keep you appraised," the Captain promises, then turns to the Sergeant. "I take it you men are from Internal Security?"

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant answers. "With orders to escort these three to debriefing."

"Okay," the Captain says. "Doctor, I know exactly where you'll be, and I promise regular updates."

"Fine," Elliott says resignedly, then turns to the Sergeant. "Very well, officer - we'll come quietly."

"Right this way, folks, if you please," the Sergeant says, indicating a vehicle parked nearby.

* * *

After a short drive into Cheyenne Mountain - Elliott, Stu, and Trudy were all impressed with the security measures in place, as well as the sheer size of the complex that had been excavated into the side of the mountain - the trio found themselves deposited in a small conference room. A pair of uniformed orderlies came in and silently arranged a pitcher of water and glasses, as well as a carafe of coffee, along with cream, sweetener, and cups, on a sideboard at one end of the conference room. Attempts by Elliott to get answers from the orderlies were futile - the pair simply smiled politely but never said a word, and they left as silently as they had entered.

Stu walks to the sideboard and pours a cup of coffee. He looks over his shoulder at his wife.

"Honey?" he asks, holding up the steaming cup.

"Why not?" Trudy replies tiredly, holding her hand out as Stu hands her the cup. Stu then glances at Elliott.

"Coffee, Elliott?" he asks.

"No. Thank you." Elliott replies tersely. He leaps to his feet and strides to the door. Grasping the handle he shakes it futilely.

"Did you really think the door would be unlocked?" Trudy asks gently.

"Son of a bitch," Elliott mutters at the inert door handle. "No. But I had to try."

"I'm sure Justine is in good hands, Ell," Trudy says.

Elliott doesn't reply. His mouth is set in a tight, grim line.

"Elliott, remember before The Day? When Connor was cut by that refugee? The docs in the Springs took good care of him. Justine will be fine." Stu says.

"It's not exactly the same thing, Stu. But I know what you're trying to do. Thanks." Elliott flashes a tight smile at his friend.

Before Stu can reply, the door to the conference room opens and two people - a female Air Force Captain, dressed in a combat uniform, and a man in casual civilian clothing - enters the room. The Captain quickly shuts the door behind her, then she and the man turn and face the trio.

"Doctor Heavensbee - Mister and Missus Flickerman - I'm Captain Susanna Snow. This is Detective Sergeant Robert Christopher of the El Paso County Sheriff's Department. I'm assigned to Complex Security here at Cheyenne. We're here on a couple of matters." Captain Snow pauses for a moment and consults the PADD in her hand. "First of all, Doctor Heavensbee. Your daughter is in surgery as we speak. The surgical team reports trauma to her left lung, as well damage to torso musculature - but no other major organs are affected and there was no arterial or venous damage, and blood loss has been described as 'manageable.' She's doing well and her team reports no complications."

Elliott feels a wave of relief pass over him as he audibly exhales. "Thank God," he mutters, shakily lowering himself into a chair. "When can I see her?"

"I'll check on that for you, but she'll be in surgery for a while yet." Captain Snow replies.

"Were any of you present at the actual incident?" Sergeant Christopher asks.

"You mean the shooting?" Stu asks.

"Yes. The shooting." The Sergeant replies.

"I was," Trudy says. "It all happened so fast."

"Ma'am, Captain Snow and I are conducting a joint investigation into the shooting. I'm afraid what happened to you wasn't an isolated incident. Could you tell me what happened?" Sergeant Christopher pauses and presses a control on the PADD that he's carrying. "Before you start, ma'am, I'm obligated to inform you that I'll be recording your statement. I'm also obligated to tell you that you are not being charged with any crime, and that you have every right not to talk to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course." Trudy replies. "I've nothing to hide. What would you like to know?"

"What were you doing say, five minutes before you were attacked?" Sergeant Christopher asks.

"We left the Flickerman Compound and we were heading back to the Heavensbee place." Trudy replies.

"How many in your group, and - let's see - I have here that you were all on horseback?"

"There were five of us, and yes, we were all on horseback."

"And you were all armed?"

"Yes, we were all armed. With pistols."

"Can you describe for me the events that led up to the shooting incident?"

"It all happened so fast. We were walking the horses back to the Heavensbee Compound. We had been helping each other out with this 'Re-Distribution' of yours and none of us was in a very good mood. We were passing a small stand of scrub when we heard a mans voice say 'Stop,' or maybe it was 'Halt' - I'm not sure. All of us were surprised, so we reined up the horses."

"So you stopped voluntarily."

"Well - yes. Like I said, we were surprised, but I don't think any of us felt threatened in any way."

Sergeant Christopher taps the keyboard on his PADD and stares at the screen thoughtfully for a moment, then looks up. "Please continue."

"A group of people came out of the stand." Trudy says. "They looked - I don't know - hungry, exhausted, beaten down. Their clothing was filthy - that much I could see."

"How many people?"

"Nine or ten. They were all on foot. About equal numbers of women to men. No kids."

"How were they armed?"

"The leader was a man, younger than me, with a full red beard. He had a short rifle like a carbine. One of the other men had a pump shotgun. I saw a couple of pistols also. I'm not sure -"

"Let me interrupt for just a moment," Sergeant Christopher says quickly. "The 'leader?' How do you know this red bearded man was the 'leader?'"

"He did all the talking." Trudy was obviously irritated at the interruption. "He apologized several times. Said they needed our horses and guns. Asked if we had any food with us."

"Go on," Christopher says gently.

"Katharine was doing all the talking. She told the leader that we didn't have any food with us. Told him we needed our horses and guns. I could see the leader getting more and more agitated the longer Kath talked."

"Agitated in what way?"

"He started raising his voice, and waving his gun around. Said the they've already killed people to get what they needed and wouldn't mind killing more. Before, he was respectful - even called Katharine 'ma'am.' But now he was calling her 'fuckin' bitch' and the rest of his group was getting agitated. That's when it happened." Trudy pauses and takes a deep, shaky breath before she can continue.

"The shooting?" Christopher asks.

"Yes." Trudy says, nodding. "The shooting."

"Who fired first?"

"I've got no idea. Does it really matter?" Trudy asks bitterly.

"Just trying to get a picture of what happened, ma'am," Christopher replies softly.

"I know. Sorry." Trudy sips her coffee before continuing. Stu takes her free hand in one of his and squeezes it gently.

"Take your time, Mrs. Flickerman," Christopher says.

"I - I'm fine," Trudy says. "I was watching the leader and Katharine as well. Justine was behind me and to my right. I heard a commotion back towards where she was, then gunshots. I'm not sure who fired first."

"Did you draw your pistol?"

"Not right away. I was - shocked - at how fast everything went to shit. I heard two, maybe three shots, and I heard Justine scream, and the next thing I know  _everybody's_  shooting, people are screaming, I'm fumbling around for my gun - and when I finally get my pistol out it's all over."

"What did you see?"

"Two of the group that stopped us were laying face down in the mud. They weren't moving. Justine was moaning and crying, still on her horse, but just barely. The group on foot had disappeared back into the scrub stand - I could hear someone crashing through the stand. I never caught sight of any of them after that. Next thing I remember is Stu and Bobby rolling up on us on their ATV's."

Sergeant Christopher nods slowly and taps on his PADD. "Anything more to add?" he asks.

Trudy shakes her head. "No," she says softly.

Sergeant Christopher turns towards Stu. "Mr. Flickerman? Anything to add?"

"No," Stu says. "By the time Bobby and I got there it was all over."

Christopher nods and carefully places the PADD on the conference table. "Folks, Captain Snow and I have been busy the past ten days or so trying to track this, and other, outlaw groups that are popping up. Near as we can tell, they're a mix of refugees, deserters, and even a few locals here and there. One of the worst is led by your friend Red-beard. He's right, they've killed before. And I've no doubt that if you and the other ladies had done what he asked you too, Mrs. Flickerman, they would have killed you too."

Trudy pales a bit at this revelation but her only reaction is to grip Stu's hand even tighter. Both Stu and Elliott look grim, but they say nothing.

"Doctor Heavensbee...Mister and Missus Flickerman...I want to try to impress you with just how serious we consider this situation," Susanna Snow says. "The Re-Distribution program was implemented - with great reluctance, I might add -" at this Elliott snorts derisively, earning a sharp look from Captain Snow "- by the current Administration due, in large part, to raiders looting local caches of grain and oil that had been partitioned out from the National Oil and Grain Reserves."

"Captain, do you think that the group that attacked us is part of something bigger?" Stu asks.

"We do," Susanna replies firmly. "We lost a lot of troops to desertion in the first couple of weeks after the impacts, when the weather was at its worst. Not just troops, either." The Captain pauses for a moment before continuing.

"We lost weapons, consumables, even vehicles and weapons systems." Susanna glances down at her PADD briefly. "Including Stryker combat vehicles. The raiders are still disorganized, and our intel indicates that there's a fair amount of in-fighting - but the consensus in Command is that they will strike eventually."

"We've identified some of their leadership," Sergeant Christopher says, tapping on his PADD. "Here's one of them. He should look familiar." Christopher hands his PADD to Trudy, who takes it and inhales audibly when she sees the picture displayed on the screen. A familiar face stares back at her, the red beard trimmed into a neat goatee.

"It's him," Trudy says, her voice just above a whisper. Stu and Elliott gather around Trudy to get a glimpse of the man that attacked Trudy and the others earlier.

"His name is Rain Wallace. He's well known to local law enforcement. He's smart, charismatic, and a total psychopath. Frankly, I'm a little shocked that his group attacked you. It didn't sound like he was very well equipped at all and I'm sure he could see that all of you were packing. It almost sounds like your two groups literally bumped in to each other." Christopher takes his PADD back from Trudy before continuing. "Ma'am, I understand that you're a trained nurse. Did he or any of the others appear to be under the influence of anything?"

"That man, Wallace." Trudy replies. "Calm and apologetic one second, screaming profanities the next. Very erratic."

"That sounds like Wallace," Christopher says. "If you see him again - shoot to kill."

"Surprising advice - coming from a cop," Elliott says.

"Doctor, we're living in changing times," Christopher replies.

"Ain't that the truth," Elliott mutters.

"Doctor, your daughter is still in surgery, but we're done here. Someone will be out to your compounds to interview other witnesses in the next day or so. But, in the meantime, we'll take you back to the hospital." Susanna says. "I'm sure you'll want to be there when she comes out of surgery."

"Yes. Yes, I would. Thank you, Captain." Elliott says. Susanna Snow and Robert Christopher usher the trio out of the conference room door, and Susanna guides them down a series of hallways, as Christopher thanks the trio one last time before leaving, claiming that he had to prepare for other interviews and begin collating the data that he had collected today.

"You know, Doctor, your group has become pretty legendary." Susanna says as they walk towards the motor pool. "You're referred to here in the Zone as 'The Falcon Preppers.' I don't mind telling you that having your group out there may prove beneficial to the Zone."

"In what way?" Elliott asks warily.

"Your three compounds are actually a strongpoint at the very edge of the sphere of influence that the Zone commands," Susanna says. "That, plus your wife's willingness to add her input to the 'Brain Trust' makes 'The Falcon Preppers' a valuable commodity."

Elliott mulls this information over.  _A 'valuable commodity?' Maybe 'valuable' enough to return our supplies to us,_  he says to himself.

"I'm still unclear as to why you want Katharine on this 'Brain Trust.'" Elliott says.

"She's a writer. A science fiction writer. I've read some of her work, Doctor. She can think outside the box, and that's just what they need in there." Susanna says with a smile.

"I thought that this think tank was made up of science types," Elliott says.

"It was, originally," Susanna says. "Astronomers, meteorologists, naval officers, even a psychiatrist. But the needs of the Zone are changing. Not only do we need people to guide this country on a path to rebuilding, but we need people that can come up with unique solutions to problems. There's even been talk of inviting the rest of your group to the Trust."

"The Enclave," Elliott says absently.

"I'm sorry - the what?" Susanna asks.

"The Enclave. That's what we call ourselves. Preppers has always sounded a bit - eccentric - to me." Elliott says, allowing a small smile to crease his face for the first time in hours.

"The Enclave. It's got a good ring to it." Susanna says. "Anyway, the Administration has expressed an interest in getting the insights of everyone from The Enclave. You all are living at a much higher standard than almost everyone outside Cheyenne Mountain."

"And that's where the word 'Preppers' comes in." Stu chimes in, matching his strides with Elliott and Susanna. "As in 'Preparation.' We are where we are because we spent years getting ready."

"I understand. Give it some thought, anyway," Susanna says as they reach the motor pool. Susanna flashes her credentials at the soldier in the dispatch shack, who promptly signs a small command vehicle out to her.

"Get in," Susanna says as she climbs behind the wheel of the command vehicle. "I'll take you to your daughter."

* * *

"Elliott, for the love of God, sit down!" Stu says imploringly. "You're gonna wear a hole in the floor with all that pacing!"

"Stu, give the poor man a break," Trudy says tiredly. "After all, it is his  _daughter,_  you know."

Elliott abruptly stops pacing. "It's okay, Trudy," Elliott says. "I know that Stu doesn't -" Elliott's voice trails off as the door to the waiting area swings open and a striking young woman in hospital scrubs enters the room.

"Doctor Heavensbee?" the young woman says. "Your daughter is out of surgery. The doctors report that the surgery went well, they foresee no complications, and Justine is expected to make a full recovery."

"When - when can I see her?" Elliott asks wearily, sinking down onto a folding chair.

"I can take you into recovery in a minute or two," the young woman says with a smile. "But she'll be out for a while from the anesthetic. Plus, she's intubated. Her surgeon wants her to have some help breathing over the next day or two to let her lung heal a bit."

"I see. That makes sense." Elliott says, nodding. He quickly glances over at Stu and Trudy, who are both smiling broadly at him.

"Well, go see her!" Stu says. "You still need to report back to Katharine, you know."

"Yes," Elliott says. "Can we go see her now? I do need to let my wife know as soon as possible."

"Of course. Right this way." The young woman holds the door open for Elliott and glances at Stu and Trudy. "I'm sorry, just immediate family for now."

"No problem," Stu says. "We understand completely." He and Trudy sit back down as Elliott disappears through the door. Together he and the young woman walk through the door and down a series of covered walkways.

"You look oddly familiar," Elliott says. "Have we met before?"

"No, sir, we haven't," the young woman replies, offering her hand to Elliott. "I'm Melody. Melody Temple-Smith."

"Temple-Smith," Elliott repeats as he shakes Melody's hand. Suddenly he snaps his fingers. "The comet! You were the one that discovered the comet!"

"One and the same," Melody says ruefully.

"I don't understand," Elliott says. "I thought you were an astronomer?"

"I am - an astronomer without a telescope, or an observatory, or a cloudless sky to look at." Melody replies with a touch of bitterness to her voice. "But, I did have a paramedic license at one time as well as a Certified Nurse Assistant certificate. That's how I spent my summer breaks from college - riding in ambulances. And, as it turns out, it's a useful skill here."

"What about the others? Weren't there some other astronomer types?" Elliott asks.

"Yes - but none of us is particularly useful as an astronomer right now," Melody replies. "In fact," she says, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper, "Some of the others - Jack Hawthorne, Henry Mitchell, and Elise Orr - have been talking about leaving the Zone to try to get back to their families."

Elliott glances at Melody in surprise. The Cheyenne Mountain Security Zone was one of the safest places on the planet right now. To leave now and try to trek across the country sounded like an elaborate way to commit suicide.

"How about you?" he asks. "Are you staying or going?"

"Staying," Melody says with a small sigh. "My husband is a Lieutenant Commander in the Navy and is still on the 'Brain Trust.' Plus - I'm gonna have a baby in about seven months or so."

"Congratulations are in order, then," Elliott says.

"Quite frankly, Doctor, I don't mind telling you that I'm scared to death," Melody says quietly, and when Elliott glances over at her he can see tears brimming in her eyes.

"It's Elliott," he says softly. Melody shakily wipes her hand across her eyes, then looks at Elliott and forces a smile.

"And please call me Melody," she replies. "I'm still not used to being called Missus Smith."

"Melody it is," Elliott says with a smile.

"Here we are," Melody says, pushing a pair of swinging doors open. Elliott quickly slips through the doors, followed by Melody. He spots Justine in her bed and blinks rapidly, forcing his tears down.

Justine's eyes are closed and Elliott can see the tube in her mouth. He watches her chest slowly rise and fall as the ventilator breathes for her. In addition, he can see a tube running up each nostril and IV tubes running down to both arms.

Elliott steps to the edge of the bed and touches his daughter's face gently. He turns back to Melody and sighs heavily.

"I - we need to get home," Elliott says, holding his daughters hand. "I need to let my wife know that she's gonna be okay."

"Of course," Melody replies. "Do you want me to let Mr. Flickerman know to start getting his hoverplane ready?"

"Yeah," Elliott says absently, staring at his daughter's face.

"Okay," Melody says with a smile. "You might as well get comfortable. I'll come get you when he's ready to go."

"Thanks, Melody," Elliott turns and faces Melody and she flashes a quick smile at him. Elliott turns back to Justine, and he feels Melody pat his shoulder gently.

"I'll be back in a bit, Elliott," Melody says, giving his shoulder one last squeeze before leaving. Elliott hears her soft footfalls, then the faint sound of the double doors swinging open, then shutting behind her.

Gently, Elliott brushes a stray strand of hair from his daughter's forehead and leans in closely to her. "You're so beautiful, Jus," he whispers. "Thank God you take after your Mom in that regard." For the next half hour or so Elliott sits at Justine's side, talking to her about everything and nothing, until it was time to fly back to the Compound.

Mostly, he just tells her over and over again how much he loves her.

And inwardly, he vows vengeance on Rain Wallace, also known as Red-Beard.


	12. TIME TO HEAL

**CHAPTER 12 - TIME TO HEAL**

**292ND COMBAT SUPPORT HOSPITAL, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - THIRTY SIX DAYS AFTER COMET FALL**

"Justine?"

Justine Heavensbee squeezes her eyes tightly shut even as the voice seems to penetrate her mind from far away.  _Tired...I'm so tired...please just let me sleep...please just -_

"Justine?"

Justine groans softly as a hand gently brushes across her forehead. Weakly she twists her head from side to side in protest, but she can't dislodge the hand. Now she's aware of something else - a dull, throbbing ache in her side. She hears a woman laugh softly.

"Come on, now. I know you're awake and I know you can hear me. Open your eyes, Justine."

Justine frowns.  _Shit, she's not going away!_  She sighs and forces her eyes open, squinting at the bright light directly overhead. Weakly she raises her hand to shield her eyes from the light.

"I'm sorry, Justine! Wait -" the voice says as the light immediately dims "- there. Better?"

Justine turns her head toward the voice, blinking her eyes and focusing on the source - a dark haired, striking young woman dressed in green hospital scrubs was sitting next to her bed. The woman smiles at her and gently takes her hand.

"Who -" Justine manages to croak "- where? What...happened?"

"Are you thirsty?" The woman holds up a cup of water with a straw. Justine manages to nod her head slightly as the woman guides the straw to her lips. Justine drinks thirstily.

"Thank you," Justine says softly as the woman pulls the straw from her lips.

"My pleasure," the woman says with a smile. "And now let me see if I can answer some of your questions. Your first question was who - well, my name is Melody. Melody Temple-Smith. Lately my job has been chief hand-holder here in the hospital. And that brings me to your second question - where. Well, 'where' is the Two Hundred Ninety Second Combat Support Hospital, Cheyenne Mountain Security Zone. And finally, your last question - the big one. What happened? Before I answer, let me ask you a question. What do you remember?"

"Umm...I'm not sure. We - we were riding back to our compound. We were maybe...I don't know...halfway back, when - when some people..." Justine's voice trails off as her memories of that day return.

"Go on," Melody says gently.

"They - someone...shot me," Justine says in a choked voice. A solitary tear tracks down her right cheek.

"That's right," Melody says gently. "But listen to me - you're gonna be okay. Your father got you here quickly. The doctors kept you in a medically induced coma until today to allow you to heal. And, they used a new drug in your treatment - they say you won't even have a scar."

"Where - where are my parents?" Justine asks.

"They're here. Want me to go get them?" Melody asks with a smile.

"Yes, please. And Melody? Thank you." Justine says softly.

"You're welcome." Melody gives Justine a smile as she leaves the ward. Justine glances around and realizes for the first time that she's not in a building - it was more tent-like than anything. She sees several other beds, most of them occupied - by both men and women.  _No gender separation here,_  she says to herself.

"Hey, roomie," a soft voice says to her left. She glances over and sees a young man, about her age, in the bed next to hers. He was awkwardly propped up on his elbow, regarding her with a faint smile. His face was dark skinned and fine featured. Justine found herself returning his smile.

"Hi," she says softly.

"I've been watching you sleep for the last day. Thank God you don't snore." In spite of herself Justine lets out a small laugh, then groans. "Oops, sorry. Only hurts when you laugh, huh?"

"Something like that," Justine says, taking a couple of deep breaths as the discomfort subsides. "So what are you in for?"

"My appendix decided to very heroically burst the day before yesterday. Nothing like your gunshot wound. By the way, I'm Bret. Bret Paylor."

"Justine Heavensbee. Nice to meet you. Excuse me for not shaking your hand."

"You're forgiven - but you'll owe me that handshake as soon as one of us is ambulatory." Bret says with a smile.

"Deal," Justine says, returning his smile. Justine turns her head as she hears a noise to her right, and sees Melody returning with her parents. She feels fresh tears spring to her eyes and her smile widens.

"Hi, baby," Elliott Heavensbee says in a choked voice, gripping one of her hands in his as he sits wearily by her bed. Katharine says nothing, but smiles through her tears as she leans down and hugs her daughter.

"Hi, Mommy," Justine says as her mother hugs her. "Hi, Daddy."

Justine was nine years old the last time she called Katharine and Elliott "Mommy" and "Daddy."

**CONFERENCE ROOM "A", CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX - THIRTY SIX DAYS AFTER COMET FALL**

'Sorry we're late," Melody says as she and Katharine Heavensbee enter the conference room. "We just came from the Two Ninety-Second. Katharine's daughter woke up today."

"Fine, fine," Dan Crane, the President's Chief of Staff, says impatiently. "Please take your seats. We're behind schedule. Mr. President - we're ready, sir."

Alexander Cray glances up from the PADD in front of him and surveys the faces assembled in the conference room. Members of the cabinet, the Joint Chiefs, and the group of advisors known as the 'Brain Trust' all stared back at him. He rubs his eyes tiredly, then waves his hand towards Crane.

"Okay," Cray says. "Go ahead, Dan."

"Thank you, sir," Dan says, consulting his PADD. "Dr. Hawthorne?"

Jack Hawthorne stands up, tapping keys on his PADD as he did so. The large view screen at the front of the room comes to life. A picture North America, obviously taken from orbit, displays on the screen.

"Thanks, Dan. Mr. President - ladies and gentlemen. In spite of our continuing comm problems with Clarke Station, we've nonetheless managed to piece together an updated map of the world since impact. Please bear in mind that this is based on radar imagery only, as cloud cover negates visual photography. What we're going to display is North America only, although we do have a fairly complete map of the entire world available." Jack taps his PADD and a new image is superimposed over the existing map. An audible gasp is heard from the assembled group as Jack activates a laser pointer.

"Working from West to East, as you can see, the Pacific coastline has been moved East by a significant distance. In California, this chain of islands here -" the pointer moves from the bottom upwards on the image "- are actually the tops of mountains of the Pacific Coast Range. This defined area here is the San Joaquin Valley, now the San Joaquin Sea. The new coastline begins roughly with the Sierra Nevada foothills -" Jack indicates with the pointer "- and the Cascade Range from Northern California, through Oregon and into Washington."

"To the South, working West to East, parts of Arizona and New Mexico are also under water. As you can see, parts of Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama are all under water. The entire state of Florida is submerged. Working South to North, the entire Atlantic Seaboard is affected similarly to the West Coast, with parts of Georgia, the Carolinas, and Virginia under water. Most of Maryland, all of New Jersey, parts of Pennsylvania and New York states, and, for all intents and purposes, all of New England are under water. The Saint Lawrence seaway has widened considerably to the point where it can almost be considered an inland sea, albeit a very shallow one." Jack pauses and takes a sip of water.

"Dr. Hawthorne, I notice on your map a series of dots similar to the ones you pointed out along the former Pacific coast, only these are to the South and the East. Are these new islands also?" The question comes from the Secretary of Defense. Leigh Paylor consults a well-used notepad, eschewing the PADD that sits, unused, directly in front of her.

"Yes, Madam Secretary." Jack replies. "Ladies and gentlemen, please bear in mind that the seas along the new coastline are quite shallow and that there's bound to be fluctuations with sea levels and depths for quite some time to come. What you're all looking at is North America as it is right now."

"So these waters may recede." Jack turns to the new voice and nods.

"Yes, General," Jack says, addressing the Homeland Security Secretary. "Although, from what we've seen, it's doubtful that we will see these coastlines return to anything resembling what they were pre-impact."

"I see. Thank you, Jack." General Paul Cresta murmurs. Suddenly, Jack remembers that Cresta is from Louisiana originally.

"You're welcome, General. And, for what it's worth - I'm sorry." Jack says softly. Cresta meets his eye and nods once.

"Thank you, Dr. Hawthorne." President Cray says. "And am I to understand that the rest of the world's coastlines have been similarly affected?"

"Yes, Mr. President." Jack replies.

"I see." Cray glances down at the PADD in front of him and taps a few keys before continuing. "Please see that the cabinet and Joint Chiefs are provided with up to date maps of the United States as well as the rest of the world."

"Yes, sir," Jack replies. "If there are no further questions, I'll be followed by Dr. Henry Mitchell."

Henry Mitchell stands up and taps his PADD, causing a weather map to be superimposed over the map still visible on the main view screen.

"Mr. President. Ladies and gentlemen. We're still in contact with Doctors David and Blair Malarkey at the National Severe Storms Laboratory in Norman, Oklahoma, although communication has been spotty. However, they were able to transmit the weather map that you see here on the screen. It's accurate as of yesterday, and there is some welcome news ahead." Henry pauses as he taps his PADD, causing the weather map to shift slightly.

"In short, the Malarkeys are predicting breaks in the storm systems that have been incessant since impact. We can expect to see breaks starting anytime in the next four to seven days." An excited murmur sweeps through the room at the news.

"Does this mean no more storms?" A new voice asks.

"Not completely, Mr. Secretary," Henry replies, glancing over at the source of the voice. Secretary of State Phillip Abernathy arches his eyebrows questioningly at Henry's reply.

"Define 'not completely,' Henry," Abernathy says.

"Precipitation levels will still remain far above normal," Henry says, "But we won't be seeing the continual string of storm systems that we've seen since impact. There will be breaks in the storms, and we can expect to see the sun once again."

Spontaneous applause breaks out in the conference room at the news of the upcoming breaks in the weather. Henry pauses for a moment, then continues.

"Now for the bad news." The room suddenly goes quiet. "I'm sure that everyone has noticed the unseasonably cool weather?" Murmurs of assent. "The string of impacts, both water and land based, blew an absolutely phenomenal amount of dust and water vapor into the stratosphere. The incessant storms were caused by all this water vapor. But the cloud cover and dust has combined to block a great deal of sunlight. We're looking at the onset of a very early winter. We'll probably see snowfall here in the Zone before the end of the month."

"The end of the month?" The speaker is sitting at the opposite end of the table from the President. Randall Thread was the Speaker of the House until the impacts and was appointed Acting Vice President by President Cray shortly after Cray himself took the Oath of Office.

"Yes, Mr. Vice President." Henry replies. "Ladies and gentlemen, the reality that we are facing is this - this winter, and probably the next several winters, will be much longer than normal. And that includes snowfall in August, and winters lasting well into April. And we can't expect anything like normal seasons. More like extended winters followed by an extended cool spring, followed by another extended winter."

As Henry speaks, the mood in the room quickly shifts from elation at the anticipation of seeing the sun again, to a much more somber tone at Henry's projections of extended winters.

"Thank you, Dr. Mitchell," Cray says quietly, then turns to Dan Crane. "What's next, Dan?"

"Infrastructure, Mr. President," Dan replies. "General Cresta and Mr. Cartwright."

Brad Cartwright stands up. "Mr. President. Ladies and gentlemen. We've completed a preliminary post-impact survey, and we've identified and classified the following metropolitan areas as 'active' and 'sustainable.' To achieve these classifications these areas have demonstrated that they still maintain some form of functioning, autonomous government and are still capable of providing services, including public safety and public works, to their residents. These areas are -" Brad pauses and taps his PADD as he lists each area. Each city highlights on the map as he speaks.

"Las Vegas, Nevada."

"Albuquerque, New Mexico."

"Salt Lake City, Utah."

"Little Rock and Pine Bluff, Arkansas."

"Omaha, Nebraska."

"Detroit, Michigan."

"Spokane, Washington."

"Indianapolis, Indiana."

"Duluth, Minnesota."

"Fort Worth, Texas."

"Atlanta, Georgia."

"Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania."

Brad pauses and takes a sip of water. "Now to infrastructure. Please bear in mind that our infrastructure assessments are made from a variety of sources. We've seen the radar maps produced by Clarke Station - well, Clarke has also provided us with data regarding highways, bridges, dams, and railways. We've taken their orbital observations, confirmed them through hoverplane flyovers as well as direct ground investigation, and have also worked with local authorities as well. I'll address each subject separately."

"One. National and/or interstate highways have, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist. We've identified major washouts in every state not currently under water. In some areas, there are stretches of highway several kilometers in length that have washed out. However, local sustainable municipalities have done a fair job at keeping local roads and highways open."

"Two. Major highway bridges have all collapsed. That also seems to be one of the major problems for local authorities as well. And, of course, collapsed highway bridges have a direct impact and go hand in hand with the issues of highway failures."

"Three. There has been failure of major dams all across the country with a couple of notable exceptions. Hydroelectric facilities along the Missouri and James Rivers are not only still standing, they are also still operational and capable of generating electricity."

"How many facilities are we talking about, Brad?" Alexander Cray asks.

"One confirmed on the James River and two confirmed on the Missouri," Brad replies. "With one more possible on each river. In addition, Mr. President - as long as we're on the subject of power generation - it appears that the Omaha Fusion Complex has survived and is fully operational."

"What's the capacity of the Omaha Complex?" Cray asks, glancing up sharply.

"Over ten petawatts, Mr. President." Brad replies. "It also looks like the Great Plains Wind Turbine Farm Complex was taken offline in plenty of time to prevent major damage."

Before the impacts, ten petawatts would have provided the United States with a quarter of its energy needs. Post-impact, this figure rises considerably - and everyone in the room is aware of this fact.

"Dan, make a note to prioritize establishing and maintaining communications with the authorities in Omaha." Cray says, turning to his Chief of Staff.

"Yes, sir." Dan replies while tapping his PADD.

"Thanks, Dan. Sorry, Brad. Please continue." Cray says.

"Thank you, Mr. President." Brad peers at his PAD while running a hand absently through his curly blonde hair. "Item four. Railways." He pauses while tapping his PADD. A new overlay appears on the main view screen map.

"Another unexpected piece of good news. It appears that the railways have come through in remarkably good shape. We've only identified a handful of destroyed railway bridges, and preliminary surveys of the existing bridges show that they are in reasonably good shape. Ditto for most of the railway lines. Finally, all of the active, sustainable municipalities that I listed earlier can be reached by serviceable railway lines." As he spoke, Brad highlighted the railway lines until the overlay resembled a spider web.

"And trains?" Randall Thread asks. "Do we have trains to run on these tracks?"

"We lost a significant number of trains in Chicago due to the Lake Michigan Tsunami," Brad replies, "But, yes, Mr. Vice President, we do have trains. Just not as many as we would have liked."

"Dan, another note. Railways and trains." Cray says.

"Got it, Mr. President." Dan says.

"I have nothing else, Mr. President," Brad says.

"Thank you, Brad. General Cresta?" Cray says.

"Thank you, Mr. President." Paul Cresta stands up. "I have three items that I need to discuss. The first involves our grain and petroleum reserves."

"Our dispersal program has been - less than successful. A significant number of grain and petroleum caches are no longer under government control. Many of these supplies were lost during the impacts and the storms and flooding that occurred post-impact. Some are in the hands of - well, bandits is the only word that comes to mind."

"Paul, what's your take on these 'bandits?'" Cray asks.

"We know that they are operating near the Security Zone," Cresta replies. "They appear to be a mix of locals, refugees, and deserters. In other words, they're literally everybody. I have no reason to think that any of these 'bandits' operating elsewhere have a different make up."

Cray turns to the Secretary of Defense. "Leigh, do you agree with Paul's assessment?"

"I do, Mr. President," Leigh Paylor replies. "We've got our own security personnel working hand in hand with local law enforcement to identify and locate these people, and we've made strides in the right direction. Please bear in mind one thing, though, Mr. President - some of these - 'bandits,' 'insurgents,' - whatever you choose to call them - some of them have access to military grade weaponry, including combat vehicles."

"I see," Cray says grimly. "Leigh, Paul - on this issue, please keep me posted daily. Dan, please make sure that time is left on my daily schedule for Secretaries Paylor and Cresta."

"Yes, Mr. President," Dan Crane replies, tapping on his PADD.

"Go ahead, Paul," Cray says.

"Thank you, Mr. President." Paul consults his PADD. "Item number two. The Re-Distribution program has had some local success." Paul pauses and glances back to where Katharine Heavensbee was sitting. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Heavensbee - I know that you and your family were caught up in the program. Please believe me that what we did was as a last resort. I do want to thank you for your cooperation, though."

"I appreciate your apology, General," Katharine says simply.

"The Re-Distribution program is a stop-gap measure, Mr. President." Paul says. "We need to move to re-establish contact with the active, sustainable areas, and we need to do it quickly. Otherwise, what we will end up having is a series of isolated islands, none of which can support the other. This has to be a priority."

"Dan?" Cray asks.

"On it, Mr. President." Dan replies.

"My last item has to do with Quebec, Canada, Mr. President," Cresta says.

"I assume you're referring to the nukes, General?" Cray asks.

"Yes, sir." Cresta replies. "We've pin-pointed the location of the nukes. A minimum of twenty-four, and a maximum of thirty-six, nuclear devices are currently under the control of a Marine Special Transportation Company. We've located this unit in Mont-Laurier, Quebec. The issue that we have is getting them back under our control. Road and even rail transport is out, and the Canadian government - what's left of it, anyway - has been less than cooperative regarding flight clearance. There's another consideration as well. President York's children were evacuated to Mont-Laurier."

"Options?" Cray asks.

"That we stay on top of the situation, Mr. President. The Marine Commander, a Major Holmes, is working in concert with Agent Coin, the Secret Service Special Agent in Charge of the York children's security detachment. We've had limited contact with both Holmes and Coin. They seemed receptive and cooperative - but there's something wrong there. A - distance, for lack of a better word. It's as if they listen, and say what they think we want to hear - but then go ahead and do what they want to do anyway." Paul Cresta pauses, and glances at Leigh Paylor, who nods in agreement.

"So, General, you think that these men - Holmes and Coin - have, what? Gone rogue?" Cray looks sharply at Paul Cresta.

"I'm - Mr. President, I don't want to accuse anyone of anything, especially without hard evidence. At this point, it's a feeling. A gut instinct. I just think that something isn't quite right in Mont-Laurier." Cresta says.

"I've come to respect your 'gut instincts,' General." Cray says thoughtfully. "Okay. Leigh, Paul - add this Mont-Laurier business to your daily meeting with me."

"Yes, Mr. President," Paul Cresta and Leigh Paylor echo.

"Anything else, Paul?" Cray asks.

"Nothing else, Mr. President," Paul replies.

"Dan?" Cray asks.

"One last item, Mr. President. Mr. Abernathy?" Dan says.

"Thank you, Dan," Phillip Abernathy says. "Mr. President, I'll be brief. You wanted an update on the world situation?"

"Yes, Phil. Go ahead." Cray says.

"Mr. President, Clarke Station has confirmed nuclear strikes against the following cities: Moscow and St. Petersburg in Russia, Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong in China, Seoul in South Korea, Tokyo in Japan, Pyongyang in North Korea, Honolulu and Fairbanks, Islamabad in Pakistan, New Delhi in India, Tehran in Iran, and Tel Aviv in Israel. We've been unable to affect any sort of contact with any of those cities since impact." Abernathy pauses for a moment to consult his PADD.

"What about the rest of the world?" Cray asks.

"We've had intermittent communication with other countries, Mr. President." Abernathy replies. "But no confirmed contact with anything that resembles a foreign government. Clarke Station continually monitors hundreds of radio frequencies and it appears that the only functioning governments are ours and possibly the Canadians. Mexico, the Central American countries - those that aren't under water, anyway - and the various South American governments all seem to have fallen to coups. There don't appear to be any functioning national governments in Europe, Africa or Asia. The communication that we've had has all been individuals - private radio operators, maybe some isolated pockets of survivors. Local governments - cities, that sort of thing. But that's it."

"Phil, are you trying to say that we're the only functioning national government left in the world?" Cray asks incredulously.

"Mr. President, we'll keep looking - but so far, we've found nothing except us and the Canadians." Abernathy says softly.

"Keep trying, Phil," Cray says tiredly. "Keep me posted. There has to be someone else out there!"

"Yes, sir," Abernathy replies.

"Anything else, Dan?" Cray asks.

"That's it, Mr. President," Dan replies.

"Alright, then," Cray says, standing up. "We all have work to do. Thank you all for coming. Dan will notify you of the next meeting. Amanda?" Cray turns to his Deputy Chief of Staff, who quickly briefs Cray on his next appointment as they walk out of the room. The rest of the assembled group files out slowly. Dan notices the "Brain Trust" hanging back and Jack Hawthorne glance over at him pointedly a couple of times.

_What now?_  Dan says to himself as Jack and the rest of the group approach. Jack had been, by some unspoken agreement, selected as the "Brain Trust's" chief spokesman, although in theory he was outranked by Henry Mitchell as well as the President's Science Advisor, Thomas Jackson, and the military liaison, Admiral Quentin Mason.

"Got a minute, Dan?" Jack asks as they approach.

"Just one, Jack," Dan says, gathering up his belongings. "What's on your mind?

"We need to see the boss," Jack says simply.

"Oh, is that it?" Dan says brightly. "And here I thought it was gonna be something hard. Didn't you just see him, Jack?"

"Yeah - but I mean in private. We need to see him in private, Dan." Jack explains patiently.

"What about, Jack?" Dan asks irritably.

"It's - personal." Jack says quietly.

"Jack, you know how this works," Dan says. "You don't get to see the boss without explaining to me exactly why you want to see him. Now, let's try this again. What about, Jack?"

Jack sighs heavily. "Fine." He waves his hand at the assembled "Brain Trust," then turns back to Dan.

"We want to resign."

**292ND COMBAT SUPPORT HOSPITAL, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - THIRTY SEVEN DAYS AFTER COMET FALL**

"One more step, Justine," Melody says, her arm around Justine's waist. "Almost there."

Justine takes one last step and, with help from Melody, sinks into the chair next to her bed.

"Oh my God," Justine sighs. "I feel like such a baby."

"You're doing great!" Melody says. "And besides - remember what the docs said. They're discharging you tomorrow."

"Ugh." Justine grunts, shifting around in her chair. "Don't they realize that three days ago I was shot in the chest? Whatever happened to recovery time?"

"Miracles of modern medicine," Melody says with a smile.

Bret Paylor, sitting in his own chair with ear buds in his ears, glances up and pulls the buds from his ears. "No fair, Justine - you promised to compare scars with me before they cut you loose!"

Justine smiles tiredly and shakes her head. She and Bret had really hit it off over the last day - and, she had to admit, his near constant flirting  _was_  very flattering.

"Can it, Paylor," Melody says playfully. "You know damn well she doesn't have a scar - and neither do you, for that matter!"

"Damn it! The voice of reason strikes again!" Bret grins wickedly at Justine and Melody and pops his ear buds back in. Soon his eyes are closed as his head bobs to the music he's listening to.

"Seriously, Melody - I can't thank you enough for everything you've done," Justine says sincerely.

Melody smiles fondly at the younger woman. "It was my pleasure, Justine," she says.

"Melody?" Melody glances up to see her husband approaching her.

"Charles," she says with a smile, rising to greet her husband with a kiss. "Charles, I'd like you to meet Justine Heavensbee. Justine, my husband, Lieutenant Commander Charles Smith."

"Hello," Justine says with a smile.

"Pleased to meet you," Charles says, somewhat distractedly. "Melody, can I talk to you alone for a moment?"

Melody frowns in puzzlement. Charles was usually not so abrupt. "Sure, hon." she says, standing up. "Justine, I'll be right back."

"Take your time," Justine says, picking up her PADD and keying up the novel she had been reading.

Charles and Melody walk to the end of the ward, where none of the beds are occupied. "What's going on, Charles?" she asks.

"Jack and Henry are meeting with Cray as we speak," Charles says. "One guess what it's about."

"They're leaving," Melody says in a near whisper, feeling a cold knot of fear in her stomach.

"They want to," Charles says. "Can't say as I blame them. Their families are all back East. Jack's wife and son ended up in Bethel Park, Pennsylvania. Henry Mitchell's family is in Vermont someplace. Doc Boggs has his family in Upstate New York. There's others, too - Elise Orr, Tom Jackson - his family is in Upstate New York also. Frank Donner left his wife and family in Louisville, Kentucky."

"Jackson?" Melody says in surprise. "He's the President's Science Advisor!"

"Who now feels - as do most of the others - about as useful as, and I quote Frank Donner, 'tits on a bull,' unquote." Charles says grimly. "They have a point, Mel. They're all scientists, and what the Trust needs now more than anything are people with practical skills - railway engineers like Bowen, Civil engineers like Wellgood - even think outside the box science fiction writers like your friend Justine's mother. What they're doing now is just parroting data from Clarke, or from the Severe Storms Lab. That brings me to another point. The Malarkeys want to join whatever exodus is being planned - and I've heard that Brad Cartwright wants in, also."

"Cartwright? He's the FEMA head!" Melody exclaims. "Cray is not gonna like his staff suddenly jumping ship!"

"Cartwright's job was pretty much done before the impacts. He's basically been functioning as Paul Cresta's assistant. And General Cresta has his own staff." Charles says. "Plus, Cartwright's wife is in Upstate New York as well. Can't blame these people for wanting to reunite with their families."

"What about your boss? Admiral Mason?" Melody asks.

"Oh, he's sticking - for now, anyway," Charles replies. "Melody - you've never said what you want. I know - well, you can't go home. I just assumed you'd want to stick here -"

"I do, Charles," Melody says firmly. She pats her stomach protectively. "Even if we had someplace to go - Montana, for example -" at this she grins at her husband "- the last thing that I want is to be traveling across a ruined country pregnant."

"I thought you'd say that," Charles says, taking his wife in his arms and kissing her.

"You know I love you, right?" Melody says after their kiss.

"As much as I love you," Charles says, smiling at his wife.

"You two might want to consider getting a room - or something," Bret Paylor's voice calls out. Charles finds himself blushing at being caught in a "public display of affection," as the Navy so eloquently puts it.

"Mind your business, Paylor!" Melody calls back sharply, grinning at her husband's discomfort.

"Seriously, Charles," Melody says quietly. "What do you think Cray will do about a big chunk of the Trust wanting to leave?"

"I think that he'll try like hell to talk them into staying - but in the end he'll relent and wish them well. I only hope that they don't run into any trouble with Rain Wallace and his group." Charles replies.

"When do you think they'll want to leave?" Melody asks.

"I overheard Jack talking to Mitchell and Jackson," Charles says. "My guess is, at the first break in the weather, which now is forecast for roughly five days from today. They'll want to leave while they can still feel the warmth of the sun on their faces."


	13. REFLECTIONS

**CHAPTER 13 - REFLECTIONS**

**FROM THE JOURNAL OF MELODY TEMPLE-SMITH**

_August 15th, 2070_

_I had to think about that for a minute. The date, I mean. Calendars seem so - unimportant - now. It seems that most everybody uses Impact Day (or The Day, as some call it) as their new calendar. Even people that should know better, like Jack, or Henry, tend to refer to days as "Five weeks after The Day," or "About a month after The Day."_

_Enough about that. Today was a very special day here in the Zone. Today we saw the sun for the first time since - well, The Day._

_We knew it was coming. The rain had slowed to a drizzle over the last few days, and even stopped altogether a few times, but the clouds never broke. Still, I don't think anyone really believed it. The clouds had come just hours after the last Impact and, for the most part, the storms had been constant for the first couple of weeks. Thunder, lightning, high winds, even some tornados and baseball sized hail at first. But the worst was the constant, never-ending rain._

_I really don't know how the soldiers on the outer perimeter were able to stand it for all these weeks. I ran into one of the infantry sergeants a couple of days ago - she had come to the hospital on sick call for what the docs had been calling "ARD" (Acute Respiratory Disease - which is a fancy term that basically means "you have pneumonia, but unless your fever goes over forty C and you constantly cough up green mucus, don't bother us), and she looked like death warmed over - and it wasn't just from being sick._

_She was wet - and I mean everywhere. Her dark skin had a definite gray pallor to it. And the poor girl could not stop shivering. I was working sick call triage - checking people in, taking vitals - and, to be fair,_ none _of the soldiers that I was working with looked very good. But this girl - well, death warmed over would have looked better._

_Anyway, this girl - this soldier - Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise is her name - was running a temp of thirty nine point nine C, and I could tell just by listening to her breathe that her lungs were full of crap. And I knew that some overworked PA was going to spend two minutes with her, listen to her chest, and hand her an all-but-useless ARD pack and mark her returned to duty - or, if she was really lucky, bed rest for twenty four hours._

_About the ARD packs. The ARD packs are a joke - Tylenol, Actifed, cough syrup, and throat lozenges. Fine for the sniffles or the common cold - but what these troops need is rest, IV's for hydration, and broad spectrum antibiotics._

_I was curious, so I ask Staff Sergeant Wise how long she had been sick. She guessed about a week. I ask her when the last time she was dry - I can see that her uniform is damp and that she had been shivering the whole time she had been with me. Her answer was pretty typical - she said that the last time she had been truly dry was before Impact - in other words, before it had started to rain. She then mentioned that all their big tents - she called them "GP Mediums" - had all sprung leaks, her Stryker vehicle was leaking, and their bunkers were so saturated that they were leaking, too._

_She also told me that their tent heaters didn't work for lack of fuel, that the troops on the line weren't getting enough to eat (who is?), and that literally her entire squad was sick._

_I try to talk her in to letting me fudge her chart and write down that magic number of forty C temp so the PA will admit her, but she flat refuses, saying how would it look to her troops if she was in the hospital and they weren't? I wanted to talk to her more - to convince her - but the PA called her name just then._

_Something about the sergeant really struck a nerve with me. I decide to see if I can't do something about the situation of the troops on the perimeter. After all, I'm still part of the "Brain Trust" - that has to be worth_ something. _So I decide to see the hospital commander, Colonel Brandon Carrow._

_Now, not just any volunteer medic can barge into the C.O.'s office, but it's amazing what kinds of doors will open when the gate keepers know that you regularly participate in Presidential Briefings. So I leave my post at Sick Call triage (unattended, but I am a volunteer, after all - what are they gonna do? Fire me?) and head down to Hospital Administration where I find Colonel/Doctor Carrow in a conference with an Air Force Major that I recognize, from Complex Security - a woman named Susanna Snow._

_Actually, I was glad that Susanna was there. She's a rising star in Complex Security - in fact, she was just promoted to Major. If she knows just how bad things are on the perimeter something may get done about it._

_As it turned out, Carrow and Snow had been discussing the troop illness situation. Carrow is a good, caring doctor. There's a good reason why his hospital was selected to be the primary medical treatment facility for the Security Zone. And Susanna knows exactly what's at stake with the lack of readiness with our line troops._

_I did end up feeling pretty stupid. Here I was, all set to toss around my "Brain Trust" weight only to find out that something was already being done about the situation. I did have one shock, though, when I found out that Major Susanna Snow was acquainted with Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise. Turns out Susanna's little brother was a deserter before the Impacts and had been assigned to Jamie's squad after he had been caught. Talk about a small world._

_All that happened two days ago. This morning I learned that the Cheyenne Mountain White House is sending three cargo hoverplanes to some textile plant that they found was still intact in Terra Haute, Indiana - to bring back patching material for the tents as well as workers to effect repairs. I also learned that the lack of fuel for the tent heaters has been addressed as well - one of the caches of petroleum that is part of the National Petroleum Reserve has been secured. It's a small step, but one in the right direction - and it taught me a valuable lesson - be concerned, but let the experts handle whatever crisis comes up._

_But all this detracted from the big event of the day - when the clouds parted and the sun actually shone down on our waterlogged landscape for a few hours._

_It was quite a sight._ EVERYONE _was outside, blinking in the bright sunshine. The ever present chill in the air started to disappear almost instantly. Soon, steam was rising from just about everything as the warming rays of the sun heated everything up._

_Even Charles was able to tear himself away from his duties to enjoy the sun. I was just so happy to feel the warmth on my face that, for a moment, I could almost forget why I was standing in a muddy field in Colorado. So, Charles and I basked in the sun's rays, arms comfortably around each other, and deep down inside I felt the first glimmer of hope that I had felt since - well, since before I found out I was pregnant._

_I'm pregnant. Even though Charles and I have been careful, it seems that we slipped up once too often. I'm not entirely sure when it happened - making love with Charles is about the only comfort that we both have, so we do it_ a lot _...but I have a due date. March 28th, 2071. And quite frankly I'm scared to death._

_I'm not afraid of childbirth. I'm not afraid of being a mother. I'm afraid of what kind of world this baby is going to be born into. Although, being here in the Zone is probably the safest place overall in the entire country, if not the world._

_But today, the reappearance of the sun did one thing - it gave us hope. And, for a little while today, I could push my fears back and feel the warmth on my face once again._

**FROM THE JOURNAL OF JACK HAWTHORNE**

_August 16th, 2070_

_We're almost on our way. By this time tomorrow we should be well on our way._

_"Brain Trust, Mark 1," consisting of myself, Frank Donner, Henry Mitchell, Elise Orr, and Morgan Boggs, along with some additions from the current Presidential Administration - Tom Jackson, the former Presidential Science Advisor, Brad Cartwright, ex-FEMA Director, and his wife, Danielle, as well as Phil (PJ) Abernathy, Jr. and his sister, Nevaeh - their father is Secretary of State ( a huge surprise there), is almost ready to hit the road. We plan on swinging down to Oklahoma first to pick up David and Blair Malarkey at the NSSL in Norman before continuing East._

_I know that the government is not happy with us leaving - but all of us have family back East. Frank Donner's wife, Raquel, is in Louisville, Kentucky, Jackson and Boggs left their wives and children in New York State, the Cartwrights have family in New York State as well, Henry Mitchell's family is in Vermont, and myself and the Abernathy kids need to get to Pennsylvania. Elise Orr and the Malarkeys are somewhat of a wild card - to the best of my knowledge neither Elise or the Malarkeys have family back East - but there's safety in numbers, and we'll need all the help we can get._

_Although the Cheyenne Mountain White House didn't offer us much in the way of help, they did make it clear that they wouldn't stand in the way of our scrounging whatever we needed. I guess the powers that be figured that we wouldn't be able to find much of anything that we would need for a cross country trip, and that we would give up and stay put._

_I guess they forgot about Denver._

_Denver had been the victim of an air-burster on Impact Day. A relatively small chunk of Shiva had detonated above the heart of the city at an altitude of about twelve thousand meters, causing widespread destruction. The thermal pulse and blast wave caused the same kind of damage that a nuclear weapon in the thirty to forty kiloton range would have caused. The only difference, of course, was the lack of residual radiation._

_Now, Denver is a ghost town. Hundreds of thousands were killed by the air burst. The majority of the survivors fled the ruined city. Those few that stayed behind starved or are in the process of killing each other off fighting for what food was left. We know that there are still small pockets of survivors still living in the city - we can see their fires at night when conditions are right - but they are scattered and disorganized. They don't bother the military patrols that periodically recon the outskirts of the city._

_So all we needed to do was to find a patrol willing to let us tag along and we could see about outfitting ourselves for a cross country trip. We knew that finding food was out of the question - the grocery stores and supermarkets that survived the air burst had been picked clean weeks ago - but we weren't after food. There would be no way that we would be able to pack enough food to last us all the way East at any rate._

_What we needed were toy stores and sporting goods stores. I was banking on what we needed to still be available for scrounging. And, with a little luck, I was proven right._

_We found a patrol willing to let us tag along and got to work once we hit the outlying areas of the Denver Metro area. We found a toy store in Littleton first and we were able to find most of the first item on our list - bicycles. Not sleek bikes built for speed - what we needed were heavy duty, durable mountain bikes. We would need ten bikes and found six that met our needs at this first store. We also found bike trailers that we could attach to the bikes for cargo transport._

_We found the remainder of the bikes that we needed at the second place we hit - a sporting goods store. The place had been picked clean of food, guns and ammo - but we expected that. What we did find was a good stock of sturdy clothing and boots, as well as fishing gear and all manner of camping supplies - sleeping bags, tents, first aid kits, stoves, cookware, and lanterns. And, an added bonus - crossbow and archery supplies._

_Archery supplies, including bows, arrows, arrowheads, strings, etc. had hardly been touched. Likewise with crossbows and crossbow bolts. Guess the survivors were more interested in guns. None of us had spent any significant time with either bows or crossbows prior to The Day - but I have a feeling that is all going to change. At least crossbows are supposed to be fairly easy to learn how to shoot._

_Guns. We have some friends in Zone Security that will give us some limited help in that area - side arms, mostly, plus a shotgun or two and a couple of small caliber rifles. Nothing military grade - for which I am glad. I don't want to shoot my way across the country - I want us to feel vulnerable and unprotected. We'll have some self defense ability but the last thing I want is for us to get into fire fights. If we keep the mindset that we are the prey instead of the predator then we won't take stupid chances - I hope._

_One last meeting with everyone tonight. Quite frankly, I'm a little concerned. The Abernathy kids and Elise are the youngest - all in their twenties (and I'm still confused as to why the Abernathy kids want to leave the relative safety of the Zone - I know that there's been rumor about them not getting along with their father, but the Zone is big enough so they can get some separation from him if need be), the Cartwrights are in their mid-thirties, same as the Malarkeys when we finally pick them up - and after that, the ages rise dramatically. Boggs is the oldest - he's in his fifties. We had already agreed to let the slowest person set the pace, but still..._

_I wish we could have had some target practice with the guns we are bringing, but ammo is in short supply. I had to satisfy myself that everyone knew how to load, cock, fire, and unload each weapon. The bows and crossbows are a different story, however. We were able to practice with those using target arrows and bolts. Some surprises there - Donner and Boggs took to the crossbows like they had been shooting them for years, while the Abernathy kids did remarkably well with standard compound bows._

_Saying goodbye to Charles and Melody was a lot harder than I thought. Admiral Mason as well. I wonder when - or if - I'll ever see them again._

_Gave everyone one last chance to back out if they wanted. No one said a word. I guess this is it. We ride tomorrow at dawn. Hopefully we'll get some more rain free days ahead, but we're going, rain or shine. Trailers are packed (with a little food, even - I doubt if the kitchen will miss what we managed to sneak out) and I advised everyone to eat well tonight and get some sleep._

_I doubt if I will._

**FROM THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS O'DAIR**

_August 17th, 2070_

_Instead of helping each other, we're killing each other. Go figure._

_The Sheriff was killed in the fighting yesterday. God knows what the hell he thought he was doing out there anyway. We needed him to coordinate with the Army and National Guard (those soldiers that are still here, at any rate) - not be "a good leader" and "lead from the front lines." It cost him - and us, too._

_The first few weeks after Impact were hell on Earth. First we had the River Tsunamis - followed by almost three solid weeks of hurricanes. And the never-ending rain._

_But things seemed to settle down. We were able to take stock of what we lost - and what we had left. And the Sheriff, PD, and military were able to function pretty smoothly at first._

_Then, people started running out of food. People started getting desperate. Those of us that could hunt, or fish, did so. Not that we had a whole lot of luck with either - at least with hunting, anyway. Fishing was another story. The River Tsunamis killed a lot of people - not only here, but all up and down the Arkansas. There were a lot of bodies in that river for a long time. The fish were the only ones eating well for a long while._

_With hunger comes desperation. Add refugees from God only knows where to the mix and what you have is a recipe for disaster._

_So there we were - what was left of the Sheriff's Department and the Police Department working with the military detachment here - distributing what food was left, coordinating cleanup efforts, and trying to keep the peace - when the killings started. Isolated, at first - unprotected homes on the outskirts of the city, mostly. But they got worse._

_The Food Bandits - I know, not very catchy, but a good description - started banding together and cooperating. We still haven't completely figured out just who they are - the ones that we've managed to kill or capture are a mix - some locals (mostly East-siders), some refugees...and a few deserters. The ones we capture we interrogate (they usually don't talk), then we run them up in front of a magistrate, try them, convict them, and usually hang them - usually all in the same day. All except the deserters. We turn them back over to the Army and let the Army hang them. It's a jurisdictional thing, you know._

_So yesterday was the first real, actual battle that we've fought against these dirtbags. Some are calling it the "Battle of U.S. 63," apparently because the highway marked the front line of the battle. It started when bandits tried to ambush a National Guard truck on South Olive Street. They fought their way out, called for back up, and within an hour there was an actual, running, pitched battle going on._

_Of course, I got called. I'm still able to charge my commicuff, although I've wanted to chuck in the river more than once since The Day. But I haven't, so I get a call from Combined Dispatch about the battle - so off we went. Me and my sons._

_Luke and Sam were deputized two days after the impacts. Holly wasn't happy with that - having me working in law enforcement was one too many, as far as she's concerned - but the boys don't have the luxury of taking their time to grow up._

_So, we grabbed our guns and off we went. I'm not sure what bothered me more - the fact that my eighteen and sixteen year old sons were going with me to an active gun battle...or the fact that they grabbed up their guns and went with me without any hesitation or fear on their part whatsoever._

_We get to the command post and check in. By the way, I'm a Captain now. Two promotions since The Day. That's what attrition does - one of our Lieutenants had gone missing during the Tsunamis and just a couple of weeks ago the Captain whose rank I'm now wearing had a massive heart attack._

_Once I get to the CP the first thing I find out was that the Sheriff was on the front lines directing the fight. So, he decided he wanted to do my job instead of his - forcing me to stay in the CP to do_ his _job, coordinating with the Army, the Guard, and the PD. Of course, the CP was an exercise in controlled chaos. They had set up in a vacant storefront. We could hear the crackle of gunfire a couple of blocks away._

_I assigned Luke and Sam to one of the Sergeants (one that I knew would take care of them), and got to work. The Army already had forces on the ground maneuvering against the Food Bandits while the Guard troops circled around, throwing up a perimeter to the rear of where we knew the bandits were fighting from. The Sheriff and Police Departments were basically there to keep non-combatants out of the battle area - and to handle any bandits that were captured._

_It was all over fairly quickly. Several of the bandits were killed (none captured) at a loss of two friendlies - an Army Corporal and the Sheriff. Luke and Sam were both okay - neither one even had to fire a weapon. In spite of that, I was still pissed - pissed about the Sheriff being someplace he had no business being. He had been a good cop earlier in his career, but being Sheriff for over fifteen years had turned him in to something else - a politician._

_I had a few more duties to perform. I stood down the combined Sheriff/PD portion of the CP, sent the boys home, set up a time the next day for what the military folks called an "after action review," and dispatched two deputies from the Coroner's division to take care of the two friendlies that were killed, as well as the bandits - although the bandits weren't getting nice plots in Graceland Cemetery - they would be dumped into a mass grave someplace on the outskirts of town._

_I confer briefly with the dead soldier's commanding officer, who tells me it's next to impossible to notify next of kin nowadays - what with all the problems with communications. I wish I had that kind of problem myself. I steel myself for my last official duty before I can go home - I have to notify the Sheriff's wife that she's now a widow._

_Life really does suck sometimes._

* * *

_I get home that night and take a cold shower (we have a well so running water isn't an issue - it's just not hot), while Holly makes me something to eat. I talk briefly with my sons - they're both good boys being forced to grow up way too fast. I was relieved to hear both admit that they were scared shitless today when they got close to the fighting. Holly doesn't talk - she leaves me to my thoughts. She does splurge a bit and pours me a generous slug of Jack Daniels. I sit quietly in the candlelight and sip the whisky slowly, savoring the mellow warmth radiating up from my belly, and try to unwind._

_My commicuff starts buzzing insistently. I answer it and I'm surprised that it's not the department or dispatch - it's an old friend who's now on the Jefferson County Board of Supervisors. He asks politely if I could tear myself away and come down to Combined Ops - the headquarters for our combined Army/National Guard/Police/Sheriff's organization._

_I bite back what I really want to say to him and instead tell him that I would be there in thirty minutes. He was cryptic, but he would only say that it was important, that it wouldn't take long, and that I was to bring Holly if possible._

_Holly was, predictably, less than thrilled. Going out after dark nowadays was a chancy proposition, and both of us were armed to the teeth. It actually took less than fifteen minutes to make the short drive (another perk of working for the Sheriff - I always had a working car at my disposal) and soon we arrive at Combined Ops. As we enter the building I notice a hand lettered sign out front:_

COMBINED LAW ENFORCEMENT OPERATIONS

_WE KEEP THE PEACE IN PINE BLUFF_

_I just shake my head and grunt as we enter the building. Keep the peace? I would laugh except it's not funny._

_As it turns out, the entire Board of Supervisors is present. And they were true to their word - it didn't take long. All they wanted to do was to inform me that, by unanimous vote, they had elected me Jefferson County Sheriff, pending a general election, and would I accept the position._

_I almost declined - until Holly quietly told me that, as much as she hates my "cop duties," she wanted me to take this position. My wife is full of surprises. So, five minutes later, I take the Oath of Office and become the newest Sheriff of Jefferson County, Arkansas._

_I thank everyone and announce my intention on going home if I'm no longer needed - at which point my Army and National Guard counterparts, as well as the Pine Bluff Chief of Police, inform me that I needed to be back the next morning - for a conference call with the Colorado Springs government._

_I think I'll splurge on another glass of Jack when I get home._

**FROM THE JOURNAL OF VICTORIA HAWTHORNE**

_August 18th, 2070_

_He's on his way._

_Or should be, according to the last time I heard from him - which was two days ago. Still no phones, but e-mail works sometimes. When he told me that he and the others were leaving the next morning - and that he loved Vic and I very, very much._

_Victoria Gail Hawthorne, don't you_ DARE _cry._

_I should be happy. The sun is finally breaking through just about every day, even if it's just for a few hours. Things seem to be stabilizing here - Paul Undersee works tirelessly to make sure that Bethel Park remains as peaceful as possible (truthfully, I think have Mike and Charlotte here - a senior U.S. Senator and his family - makes him more than a little nervous - although the Everdeens have taken great pains to be looked at as just "regular folks"), and the community really pulls together well. And now, Jack is on his way - on his way to me. I should be happy. But I'm not._

_I'm scared to death._

_It's horrible being separated from him - it's been ages since we've actually talked, and even longer since I've seen him. But, up until yesterday, I knew where he was - and I knew he was in one of the safest places in the country. But now - all I'm sure of is that he's somewhere between Colorado Springs and Norman, Oklahoma. And I've heard stories and rumors about what's been happening in the areas away from population centers - and none of them are pleasant._

_Jack promised to contact me as often as he can while he and the others travel, but I know that it will be days before he reaches Norman. But the one thing that I can't do is let Vic see how scared I am._

_Vic. He's valiantly trying to hide it, but he and Nicole Everdeen have become quite - close - over the past few weeks. I'm sure Mike and Charlotte have picked up on it also - well, Char, anyway - but it's cute, and sweet, to see how much of an effort they both put in to being proper when others are around. I know that to not be the case, though - I did spot them on the living room couch one night, and what they were doing was not simply having a quiet, friendly conversation._

_So, the next morning, I took Vic aside and had "the talk" with him. You know, the one his father is supposed to have once his son starts "noticing" girls. Predictably, Vic was mortified that his mother had seen him making out with Nicole, and I can only hope that he took my advice to heart. We don't need an unwanted pregnancy!_

_I did debate on whether or not I should tell Char about it, and in the end, I did. I don't know why I was surprised to find out that she already knew, and had her "talk" with Nicole already._

_Nicole, in addition to being very pretty, is smart and strong for her size. Vic could do a lot worse. Oh my God, I'm sounding like a mother._

_Back on the topic at hand - Jack. He assured me that they've taken every possible precaution, and they're traveling in a good sized group. They are well equipped and armed. He doesn't think that they'll run in to any serious trouble._

_I just wish I could shake this nagging feeling that I'll never see him again._

_The Everdeens have been wonderful. I'll never be able to repay them for their hospitality or the kindness they've shown Vic and I. They willingly share their meager food ration with us. In return, Vic and I work hard. When Jack gets here I don't want people to tell him that his wife and kid didn't pull their own weight._

If _he gets here._

_Stop thinking like that!_

_I wish I could._


	14. THE ROAD

**CHAPTER 14 - THE ROAD**

**OUTSIDE CLAYTON, NEW MEXICO - EIGHT WEEKS AFTER IMPACT**

Frank Donner and Jack Hawthorne watch anxiously as the young pronghorn buck edges ever nearer to their blind. Both men are sure that the antelope can hear the pounding of their hearts as the skittish animal paws at the ground nervously, then dips its head quickly to pull up a tuft of grass.

Frank sights carefully down the length of the crossbow.  _Just a little closer,_  he says to himself,  _and turn just a hair more to the right._ He blinks his eyes rapidly, not daring to move his hand to wipe away the sweat. With effort, he forces himself to take slow, deep, even breaths.

The pronghorn takes a step, then another, toward the two men. Frank glances at Jack, laying next to him on the damp ground, his arms outstretched, firmly grasping the butt of his pistol. The pistol is a last resort. If the crossbow bolt only wounds the animal, and if PJ Abernathy's arrow misses, Jack is ready to bring the antelope down. But only as a last resort.

Gunshots bring unwanted attention.

_Just behind the left shoulder,_  Frank says to himself.  _Just like the book says._  Frank's stomach rumbles involuntarily, causing Jack to shoot him a sharp glance. Frank looks at Jack apologetically. Jack just shakes his head and gives Frank a small grin. It's been two days since either man has eaten anything substantial. Everyone is very hungry.

The pronghorn pauses and raises its head, nose twitching, then takes one final, fatal step towards Frank and Jack. Frank lightly touches the crossbow trigger. A sharp  _twang_ is followed almost instantly by a meaty  _thunk_  as the bolt strikes home, just behind the antelope's left shoulder. The young buck stiffens, stumbles, then whirls, its hooves digging into the soft ground. Jack's finger tightens on the trigger of his pistol, but, before he can fire, an arrow suddenly sprouts from the pronghorn's neck.

The animal stumbles, coughs a spray of bloody mist, and falls to its knees. Frank and Jack spring to their feet, as Frank, cursing, fights to draw the crossbow string back once again. From their left, Frank and Jack see PJ Abernathy emerge from his own blind, another arrow nocked and ready, his sister hot on his heels.

There was no need to hurry. The antelope was not going anywhere. By the time the foursome clustered around the buck, it was sprawled out on the soft, muddy ground, breathing laboriously.

The four novice hunters stared down at the dying animal, unsure what to do next.

"Do we cut its throat, or what?" Jack asks, holstering his pistol. Frank shrugs.

"I guess," Frank says. "At least that's what the book says."

"So...uhh...who's gonna do the honors?" PJ asks. They all hesitate and look at one another in confusion.

"Shit," Nevaeh Abernathy says in disgust, pulling her knife from its sheath. "All you  _men_  need to stand aside."

Nevaeh kneels next to the antelope, her knife in hand. Taking a deep breath, she firmly grabs one horn and pulls the animal's head up with a grunt. Gritting her teeth, the girl places the point of her knife at a spot on the buck's throat that she hopes is over an artery and gets ready to push - until her brother's hand clamps down on her shoulder.

"Nev," he says softly, pointing at the pronghorn's eyes. Nevaeh glances down, seeing the eyes unfocused and glazed over. She relaxes and lowers the animal's head gently to the ground.

The foursome stand silently for a moment, then Frank kneels down and works the crossbow bolt free of the antelope's body, then does the same for the arrow protruding from the animal's neck. He carefully wipes both the bolt and the arrow clean, then wordlessly hands the arrow back to PJ, as he slips the bolt back into place on his crossbow.

"Okay," Jack finally says. "Let's truss him up and carry him back to camp. Frank, I sure hope the  _book_  has a chapter on cleaning and butchering a pronghorn antelope."

Frank simply casts a baleful glance at Jack, then pulls out a machete and turns to the task of cutting a carry pole.

* * *

"Who would have thought butchering an antelope would be so friggin'  _hard_?" Brad Cartwright grunts, carelessly wiping a bloody hand across his forehead, leaving a red streak in its wake.

The group of travelers had taken refuge in an abandoned outbuilding outside the town of Clayton, New Mexico. Nearby, the charred remains of what used to be a large house sit undisturbed, with only the blackened stone chimney still standing. None of the group knew if anyone had been inside the house when it had burned, and no one felt like poking around in what was left to find out.

"We're almost done," Henry Mitchell says, picking up the handles of a wheelbarrow in preparation for pushing it outside. The wheelbarrow was laden with entrails that had been carefully removed from the animal. The headless carcass was hanging from a rafter by its hind legs. The floor was slick with blood.

By sheer chance the group had stumbled across a building that had been used to butcher deer and antelope before. The walls were decorated with deer antlers and antelope prongs, and the stainless steel sink and tables showed signs of regular use.

The only problem was the fact that there was no running water.

Still, the building was on property that sat on a well, and a hand pump had been set up by the previous owners outside the outbuilding. Tom Jackson and Morgan Boggs had been steadily pumping water and filling whatever containers they could find. Elise Orr and PJ Abernathy kept a steady supply of water coming in during the butchering operation - even if it was by the bucketful.

Brad Cartwright, Henry Mitchell, and Frank Donner had busied themselves with butchering their kill. All three were liberally decorated with antelope blood. Frank continually referred to "the book" - an all-purpose survival guide that Melody had managed to get from Elliott Heavensbee, and had in turn given to Jack as a going-away present - printed on heavy-duty waterproof paper - all during the butchering process.

The book was turning out to be worth its weight in gold. It contained priceless information on just about every survival topic imaginable - how to hunt, trap, fish, make fire, purify water, build shelter, clean and butcher game of all sizes - and was guarded carefully. And now, it was guiding Brad, Henry, and Frank on how to butcher a pronghorn antelope.

Nevaeh Abernathy and Danielle Cartwright had turned to the task of scraping the antelope skin - another task found in the book. Admittedly, the skin was in rough shape, and wouldn't be good for much - but the group was determined not to waste anything.

"Who knows," Danielle had said, "Maybe we can use it to, I dunno, fix our boots or something later on."

Elise and PJ enter the outbuilding, each one grunting under the weight of a full bucket in each hand. They pause for a moment, then carefully splash water onto the bloody floor, then use brooms to push the bloody water towards a floor drain. Henry passes them with his full wheelbarrow as he carefully guides it through the open door.

Frank and Brad turn back to the task of slicing meat off of the hanging carcass. Some of the choicer cuts - the brains, the liver, and other tender items - would be cooked and eaten that night. The real work would be to take the bulk of the meat and slice it into long, thin strips - then slowly dry those strips over a low, smoky fire. Jack and the others hoped that this supply of jerky would supplement their depleted food stocks and keep them going at least until they reached Norman, and the Malarkeys.

Outside, Henry carefully dumps the contents of the wheelbarrow into a hole that had been dug for that exact purpose. Once the barrow was empty, he picks up a nearby shovel and carefully buries the entrails and other offal. In spite of the chill air, he's soon perspiring with the exertion.

"Hey," a feminine voice says from behind him. Henry pauses and glances to his rear, wiping his face on his sleeve as he does so. He smiles when he sees Elise Orr standing patiently, a bucket of water in each hand, which she carefully sets down as he watches.

"Hey, Elise," Henry says, spading up another shovel full of earth and dumping it into the hole.

"I just talked to Jack," Elise says. "He said to tell you that he could use some help with the fires if Brad and Frank don't need you any more."

"I'm sure they can spare me," he says with a grin. He points to the buckets. "Are those for me?"

"Yes," Elise replies. "To rinse out the wheelbarrow." She watches Henry dump more dirt into the hole.

"Thanks," Henry says as he carefully pats the dirt down over the hole. "I guess it's a good idea that we clean up after ourselves, in case the - owners - of this place come back."

Elise doesn't reply. She, along with the rest of the travelers, was sure that the owners were somewhere in the charred remains of the nearby house. Instead, she helps Henry rinse out the barrow, then walks with him as he tilts the wheelbarrow up and leans it carefully against the side of the outbuilding, the shovel leaning next to the barrow.

"Where's Jack?" Henry asks as he and Elise walk back towards the hand pump.

"Other side of the building," Elise replies. "They found a big charcoal grill - you know, one of those steel drums cut in half lengthways?" Henry nods. Those homemade grills were fairly common in this part of the country.

Henry and Elise reach the pump, and Elise offers to pump water while Henry washes up the best that he could. Gratefully, Henry rubs his hands together under the cold water, then splashes water on his face, and dries his face and hands with a bandana, then pumps water for Elise so she could do the same.

"Henry, can I ask you something?" Elise says suddenly.

"Shoot," Henry replies, folding the bandana carefully before shoving back into his pocket.

"This is gonna sound stupid - promise you won't laugh." The girl looks at him anxiously.

"Cross my heart," Henry says with a smile as he makes a crossing motion over his chest with a finger.

"Do you -" Elise stammers, taking a deep breath. "Do you - think I'm pretty?"

Henry arches his eyebrows in surprise.  _Two weeks on the road and she asks_ THAT? He says to himself. The truth of the matter is, Henry had come to regard Elise as a colleague - one that he had grown to respect a great deal over the last few months. But now she was asking...something he had not expected.

Quickly, Henry examines the anxious girl. Her shoulder length hair was light brown, now tied in the back in a simple pony tail. Elise was slender and slightly built, but had demonstrated unusual strength and stamina on this trip, always willing to help and never complaining. Her eyes were a soft brown in color, matching her hair, and Henry realized with a start that she  _was_ a pretty girl - at least under the dirt and grime that they all now sported.

"Yes. Yes I do, Elise." Henry answers truthfully.

Henry sees Elise blush and look down at the ground for a moment. "Really?" she asks.

"Really." Henry answers with a smile. "Mind if I ask why you're asking me this now?"

"Oh, God, I was afraid you'd want to know," Elise says quietly, then takes another deep breath. "It - it's PJ."

"PJ? As in Phillip Abernathy, Junior?" Henry asks. Elise nods her head miserably.

"Please don't say anything to him," Elise begs. "I - I need to figure out - well, how I'm gonna - tell him."

"Want some advice?" Henry asks gently. Elise nods wordlessly.

"Let things happen naturally. I know you two talk - I've seen and heard you. If he feels the same way, he'll figure out a way to let you know." Henry says quietly.

"And if he doesn't?" Elise asks, her voice just above a whisper.

"If he doesn't - well, you can't force these things," Henry replies. "But he would be stupid not to."

"You're just saying that, Henry," Elise says with a small smile, then steps forward and hugs the older man. "But thank you anyway."

"You're welcome," Henry says, returning her hug awkwardly.

_Elise, you picked a hell of a time to fall in love,_  Henry says to himself as Elise shows him where Jack is setting up his cooking and meat drying operation.

* * *

Tom Jackson glances at his watch. 2:47 A.M. He pokes at the low fire burning in the grill and debates whether or not to add more wood to the embers, then decides against it. Strips of antelope meat were arranged carefully above the glowing coals, slowly smoking and drying. Tom smiles slightly to himself.  _Never thought brains would taste so good. For that matter, I never thought I'd like liver, either!_  For the first time in days, the edge has been taken off his hunger.

Tom holds his chilled hands above the grill for a few moments to warm them up, then rubs them vigorously together. He glances over at Morgan Boggs, his watch partner, walking slowly and somewhat stiffly nearby. So far, this trip had been tough on all of them - but even more so on Boggs. Boggs was the oldest and was not exactly an outdoors type. Still, he weathered the hardships of the road without complaint.

"Boggsy," Tom calls out softly. Boggs stops walking and glances over at Tom.

"Come on over and get warm. I'll spell you on walking perimeter." Tom gestures at Boggs to come over to the grill.

Boggs walks over to the grill and gratefully hands the shotgun to Tom. "Thanks, Tom," he says softly. Like Jackson, Boggs holds his hands above the glowing embers. "Do you ever wonder why we decided to come along on this adventure?" Boggs asks.

"Only about twenty times a day," Jackson replies with a chuckle.

"I keep reminding myself that it'll be worth it in the end, though," Boggs says. "When I see Coralee and Alfonso again."

"I know what you mean," Tom says. "My family's in Syracuse - or was, the last time I was able to talk to them."

"Mine's in Albany the last time I talked to them," Boggs says, "But that was before - The Day."

Tom sighs. "Same here." He pauses for a moment. "Boggsy, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Depends," Boggs replies with a smile. "Shoot."

"Was reuniting with your family the only reason you left the Zone?" Tom asks carefully.

Boggs hesitates for a moment before replying. "Of course. Isn't that why you came along?"

"You know that I was pretty close to the President - professionally, I mean." Tom says. "Being the Science Advisor and all."

"Yes, I knew that," Boggs replies patiently.

"It wouldn't have been easy, but I'm pretty sure that I could've managed to pry a hoverplane or two loose to collect up our families and bring them back to the Zone." Tom continues. "At least now that there's breaks in the weather."

"Which is getting colder by the day," Boggs grumbles. "Tom, I've spent my life listening to people and interpreting their feelings from their words. You could've managed, eventually, to bring all our families back to the Zone - but you didn't. And I think I know why."

Tom nods. "Cray."

"Not just Cray," Boggs says.

"No," Tom says, shaking his head. "It goes deeper than that. A lot deeper. Boggsy, there's something...well,  _wrong_  going on inside Cheyenne Mountain."

Boggs nods solemnly. "I felt it too. With Cray, and Thread - and others, too. That Air Force Major - you know, the one in Complex Security - Snow. And there seems to be two distinct factions that are gonna be at odds with each other soon - if they aren't already."

"Yeah," Tom says. "Jack felt that something was brewing, also. One the one side there's sitting Cabinet members - Abernathy, Paylor, Cresta, and the Deputy Chief of Staff, Amanda Dalton. And on the other side there's Dan Crane, the Temple-Smiths, that Air Force Major - Snow - and the Falcon Preppers - Heavensbee, Trinket and Flickerman. Heavensbee's wife is part of the "new" Brain Trust, after all - and it seems like the other Preppers are being drawn in as well."

"What about Mason?" Boggs asks. Jackson shrugs.

"I'm not sure. I think he could go either way - but I think he's leaning more like us. He just wants to go home." Tom replies.

"So, what do you think is... _wrong_ , Tom?" Boggs asks.

"I dunno, Boggsy." Tom replies slowly. "Call it a - hunch. A vibe. A feeling. I mean, outwardly, things  _seem_  okay. The government is, well, trying to govern, at least. Contact is being made with other areas, infrastructure is being assessed. It's what they  _didn't_  do that has me concerned."

"They didn't try to stop us," Boggs says.

"Exactly." Tom agrees. "Oh, they said all the right things - but never once did they say anything about sending hoverplanes out, or verifying the locations of our families, or anything else for that matter that would indicate that they wanted us to stay in the Zone."

"And they couldn't - 'dispose' - of us. We're too visible," Boggs says thoughtfully.

"So they let us go," Tom says. "Someone probably figured that the road would do the job for them."

"Tom, I hope to God that we're wrong about all this. The Complex controls the bulk of what's left of the military, among other assets." Boggs says.

"Except those nukes up in Canada," Tom replies thoughtfully. "And that really bothers them."

Boggs sighs. "Yet another 'wild card' in this whole business."

"Exactly," Tom says. "Okay, I better walk the perimeter." He glances at his watch. "Check the meat in about fifteen minutes or so. If it's done, take it off. You know where the other raw meat is, right?"

"Yeah," Boggs replies. "And the jerky goes into those buckets over there?"

"Yeah," Tom says. "That should be the last of it. Hopefully it'll be all dried my morning." Tom flexes his hand and grins. "My hand is still sore from all that cutting and slicing."

"Mine too," Boggs says, returning the other man's grin.

"Okay, see you in a few." Tom says, shifting the shotgun from one hand to the other.

"Tom?" Boggs says. Tom stops and turns to face him. "Having the Abernathy kids here with us makes sense now, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Tom says quietly, then begins to walk his guard post without further conversation.

* * *

Jack Hawthorne blows on his frigid hands and scratches absently at his scruffy beard before slipping on his gloves. A cold, light rain was falling. Jack glances up at the lightening sky.  _It'll be dawn soon_ , he says to himself,  _we need to get on the road._

Brad Cartwright walks up to Jack. "We're loaded and ready, boss. Except for the Abernathy kids."

Jack sighs heavily. "What's the hold up, Brad?"

"Call of nature, I think," Brad says with a grin. He points off towards the brush line near the outbuilding. "They disappeared in there a minute ago."

"Great," Jack mutters. "We need to make up time. I'll give 'em five minutes - no more."

"Jack?" Tom Jackson calls out. Jack looks over at Tom questioningly. Tom points towards the road. "Company."

Jack glances in the direction that Tom is pointing, and feels a cold knot of fear build in his belly. Several shadowy figures were approaching the outbuilding from the road - and Jack could see that they are all carrying weapons.

Jack glances around at his companions. Frank was standing near his bike, nervously fingering the shotgun. Danielle Cartwright and Henry Mitchell were clutching the two small caliber rifles as they watched the approaching strangers.

_Guys, we're outgunned. Please, please, please don't try anything!_  Jack thinks to himself as he plasters what he hopes is a friendly smile on his face and steps forward to meet the strangers.

The group of strangers - Jack counts six in all - stops short of where the travelers are assembled and wordlessly they fan out in a semi-circle. Jack slowly and carefully walks towards the strangers, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

"That's far enough, friend," a man's voice says pleasantly. Immediately, Jack stops, as a man steps forward from the group of strangers. The man saunters casually up to where Jack stopped. As he draws near Jack can see that the man is about his own age, sporting a beard, and carrying an old style lever action hunting rifle casually in the crook of his arm. Jack can also see a pistol hanging from the man's gun belt.

The man approaches to within a few steps of Jack and stops. Jack pulls off his right glove and extends his hand.

"Jack Hawthorne, coming from Colorado Springs," he says evenly.

"Don't care who you are," the man says calmly. "And who I am ain't important. All you need to know is who we represent." The man pointedly ignores Jack's outstretched hand.

"And what is that?" Jack asks, trying to keep the fear from creeping into his voice. He stuffs his right hand back into his glove.

"We're part of the Clayton Community Militia," the man says. "Investigating a trespassing complaint. Seems like the complaint was valid." The man smiles unpleasantly.

"I didn't know we were trespassing," Jack says, fighting to keep his voice calm. "We couldn't find the owners of this building here."

"That's because they're all in that house, there - cremated," the man says with a humorless laugh. "Which means that the property reverts to the control of the Town of Clayton. And we represent the Clayton community." The man waves his hand vaguely towards his companions.

"In that case, I apologize," Jack says. "As you can see, we're all packed up. We'll be on our way - and you won't have any more trouble from us."

"Oh, it ain't that easy, friend," the man says, with another unpleasant laugh. "Ya see, there's the charge of poaching now, as well."

"Poaching?" Jack asks, his voice tight.  _Steady_ , Jack says to himself.

"Are you denyin' that your group took a pronghorn yesterday?" The man asks.

"We didn't know that it was poaching," Jack replies.

"Ignorance of the law's no excuse," the man says curtly.

"What is it you want?" Jack asks tightly.

"It's simple," the man says. "We're confiscating the meat from that pronghorn you took yesterday. That'll take care of the poaching charge. As for trespassing - the fine will be your bikes."

"Jack, they can't! We need those bikes! We're as good as dead without them!" Danielle Cartwright says, almost shouting.

"And shut your bitch up," the man says calmly. "Now, we're bein' more than generous. You get to keep your weapons and whatever you can carry on your backs. Now, where's the rest of your group?"

"The rest?" Jack asks, feigning confusion.

The man takes a menacing step forward. "Don't fuck with me, friend," he says through clenched teeth. "I count ten bikes - and eight people. Now, let's try this again. _Where's the rest of your group?_ "

"Probably still inside the building," Jack says nonchalantly, shrugging. "Making sure that we've got everything."

Without taking his eyes off Jack, the man holds up two fingers above his head, then makes a twirling motion and points to the building. Two men immediately peel off and trot forward.

"Search the building," the man orders. "If anyone's in there, and they resist - kill them." Both men nod, and, without a word, trot to the outbuilding and quickly enter, the door slamming shut behind them.

"Now," the man says, turning back to Jack, "For causing me additional trouble and making me look for your people, I've decided that -" the man never finishes his statement, interrupted by the sudden sound of gagging and choking behind him. Jack looks beyond the man and sees the militiaman on the far left drop his rifle with a clatter, his hands clutching feebly at his throat, plucking weakly at the arrow that suddenly sprouts from his neck.

The militia leader spins around in time to see the man on the far left sink to his knees, spraying blood with every cough. For a split second everyone - traveler and militia alike - freezes in shock, just long enough for the militiaman on the far right jerk rigidly, then collapse without a sound from the arrow protruding from his chest.

The sight of the second militiaman skewered by an arrow galvanizes everyone into action. The leader spins back around toward Jack, swinging his rifle up, fury on his face. Jack lunges clumsily forward, slamming bodily into the man as they fall to the ground, both men grappling for the rifle.

Jack is gasping heavily with exertion as he and the man fight for control of the rifle. Jack feels a sudden explosion of pain as the mans fist collides with his temple, but he never relinquishes his grip on the rifle. Instead, he fights back the only way he can, viciously head-butting the man in the face, wrenching the rifle from the mans grip, then bringing the rifle above his head, and, with a hoarse yell, savagely brings the butt of the rifle down against the mans face, again and again, until hands grab him from behind.

"Jack! Stop!" Henry shouts, as he and Tom Jackson grab his arms. Jack struggles for a moment, then suddenly goes limp as the adrenaline and tension suddenly ebb from his body. He kneels for a moment, gasping, staring dumbly at the militia leader's ruined face, then shrugs the hands off his arms.

"I'm...I'm okay," he stammers, as he staggers to his feet. For the first time since the battle started, he's able to look around.

The four militiamen that were backing up their leader lay dead, arrows and crossbow bolts protruding from their bodies. The leader was obviously dead also, his face an unrecognizable, bloody mess. Jack glances over at the outbuilding. Another militiaman lays dead just outside the door, another victim of arrows and crossbows. The last militiaman is sitting on his knees, his hands on top of his head, trembling from fear. Nevaeh Abernathy stands over him, her pistol aimed squarely at his head.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, then bends over and vomits violently. The meager contents of his stomach empty onto the cold ground. When he was finished, he straightens up shakily and fumbles for his canteen, rinsing out his mouth and spitting the water onto the ground.

"What - what happened?" he asks weakly. Quickly Henry and Tom fill him in. PJ and Nevaeh had both taken their bows with them when they went to answer their calls of nature. Working their way back through the brush, they had at first heard, then seen what was going on. They didn't have time to work out a plan, except to agree to take out the far left and far right militiamen first, and that PJ would shoot first.

"From there, things happened fast," Henry says, with the other two militiamen being shot with both arrows and crossbows before they could bring their weapons up, and the two militiamen inside the building were caught by surprise when they came back out, with the first one being killed immediately, and the other surrendering as soon as he saw his friend get killed.

Jack looked around at his fellow travelers. Henry, Frank, Tom and Elise all looked a little green and sick, Boggs was watching everything unfold stoically, while the Abernathy's and Cartwright's all had a definite cold glint in their eyes.

"Is everyone all right?" Jack asks. After assurances from Henry and Tom that no one in their party had been hurt, Jack turns to the assembled group.

"We need to get the hell out of here," Jack announces. "We need to put some distance between us and this place before their friends come looking for them."

"What about - the bodies?" Elise asks quietly. Jack thinks for a moment.

"Put 'em in the outbuilding," he says. "But collect up their weapons and any ammunition that they may be carrying. We can use them."

"What about him?" PJ says, jerking his thumb at their prisoner. Jack looks closely at the militiaman, and realizes with a start that he was looking at a boy, certainly no more than sixteen or seventeen years old - and the kid looks scared to death.

"Tie him up and stick him in the outbuilding with the bodies," Jack says tiredly.

"No!" Nevaeh hisses. "We need to kill him too! Don't you think he'll spill his guts to whoever finds him?"

"I said tie him up!" Jack barks. "No more killing! There's been enough killing for one day!"

Nevaeh glares at Jack, opens her mouth as if to say something, then snaps her mouth shut, spins on her heel, and stalks off towards her bike without another word, trailed by her brother.

Jack walks over to the surviving militiaman and squats down. "Relax," he says quietly. "No one's gonna kill you. Henry - Tom. Tie him up, please."

Henry and Tom trot over, with Tom carrying some line that he found in the outbuilding. As Henry and Tom tie the boy up, Jack begins talking.

"You're gonna be put inside the building with your friends," Jack says, jerking his thumb at the open door, where, as he speaks, Morgan Boggs is dragging the limp body of the militia leader.

"I'm sure someone will be along in a while to check on your group, once they realize that you're overdue. Right?" The boy nods dumbly. "Okay. You tell them that if they come after us, that what happened here will happen to them. Got it?"

The boy looks up at Jack, tears streaming down his face, and nods. "Thank you," he says hoarsely.

Henry looks at Jack and nods. Jack stands up stiffly and turns his back on the boy. "Henry - Tom. Get him inside, please." Without waiting for a response, Jack walks slowly over to his bike.

Someone grabs Jack's arm from behind. Jack whirls around to see Nevaeh Abernathy gripping his arm, her eyes flashing with anger.

"You're making a big mistake, Jack!" she says. "We need to kill him - now! Or did you really think that these assholes were just gonna take our food and bikes and let us just walk away? They were gonna  _kill_  us, Jack! You know good and well they were gonna kill us!"

"You're right, Nev," Jack says wearily. "I'm sure they were gonna kill us. And we owe you and your brother a huge debt of gratitude for being in a position to do something about it. But, think about it for a second." Jack pauses as Henry and Tom walk up.

"All set, Jack," Tom says. Jack nods and says, "Thanks, Tom. Stick around for a minute, I want you two to hear this too." Jack pulls his canteen out and takes a long drink before continuing.

"As I was saying," Jack says, "These guys approached us on foot today. And, they wanted our bikes. Our  _bikes_. That tells me one thing - this 'militia' of theirs is on foot. There's no way that they  _can_  come after us. We'll be twenty kilometers from here before their friends even know what happened."

Nevaeh looks at Jack uncertainly. "Satisfied?" Jack snaps.

"Yeah. I guess," she answers sullenly.

"Good. Okay, we're wasting time. Let's hit the road." Jack says brusquely, mounting his bike. He watches as the others mount their bikes. Minutes later, the travelers are pedaling down the road in an easy rhythm, squinting their eyes against the misty rain.

As Jack's legs pump up and down, one thought keeps running through his mind.

_I killed a man today. I'm a murderer. What am I becoming?_


	15. BEHIND THE WIRE

**CHAPTER 15 - BEHIND THE WIRE**

**CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - BASE CAMP MURPHY - TEN WEEKS AFTER IMPACT**

Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise stands under the scant protection offered by the olive drab tarp that had been set up to the rear of the platoon leader's vehicle. She hunches her shoulders against the chill wind and snow flurries blowing through the base camp. In her hands she's clutching a tattered and dog eared notebook and pen, but so far had not written down so much as a single word.

Jamie could recite the nightly security brief word for word from memory. Stand down, with one hundred percent alert, would commence thirty minutes before sundown and would end thirty minutes after sundown. After that, thirty three percent alert for the rest of the night. Stand to, and another one hundred percent alert, beginning thirty minutes before sunrise and ending thirty minutes after sunrise.

A wracking cough suddenly hits Jamie and she turns away from the Lieutenant, mumbling an apology between hacks as she struggles to control the coughing spell. Two more gagging coughs fills her mouth with more nastiness from her lingering illness, and she screws up her face in disgust as she spits a gob of green mucus onto the wet, muddy ground.

Jamie wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and pulls her canteen from her belt, quickly rinsing her mouth, then twists open a small plastic bottle, shakes two pills into her hand, and swallows them with another pull from her canteen.

"Now, if Sergeant Wise is quite through hacking up a lung, perhaps I can finish my brief," the Lieutenant says, not unkindly.

"Sorry, Eltee," Jamie mumbles, glancing around at the other squad leaders and the platoon sergeant in embarrassment.

"No worries, Sergeant. I'm almost done. Two more orders of business. Number one is to tell your people to tighten up tonight. G-2 seems to think that the Raiders are planning something big. Apparently that nut job Rain Wallace has ordained himself - he's calling himself 'Reverend' Wallace now, telling everyone that Shiva and Mjolnir were 'God's will,' that this is the chance for the righteous - his followers, of course - to rise up against the agents of Satan - that's us, by the way -" the Lieutenant pauses for a ripple of laughter "- and defeat us once and for all. The brass is taking this guy seriously, by the way. He's got access to military weapons and hardware."

"Including Strykers and mortars," the platoon sergeant adds.

"And, there's been increased activity along the perimeter. The Cottonbalers in the First of the Seventh have been probed every night for the last four nights," the Lieutenant continues.

The Cottonbalers held the perimeter directly across from Base Camp Murphy, on the far side of the Zone.  _Some probe,_  Jamie says to herself,  _two nights ago it sounded like a full-fledged firefight!_

"Which brings me to the last order of business. Third Squad has the listening post tonight," the Lieutenant says, ignoring the groan of protest from the Third Squad leader.

"Alright, that's it," the platoon sergeant says. "Stand down starts in exactly -" the sergeant squints at his watch "- forty-six minutes. The mess hall's serving, so get your troops fed. I'm gonna swing by and see each of you after stand down to see your sleep plans, and by God and Sunny Jesus, you three -" he jabs his finger at each of the three squad leaders "- had better be on it! Each of you has a capable assistant squad leader - start delegating some authority. I want each and every one of you to get six hours  _uninterrupted_  sleep - every night that we can swing it. And tonight's one of those nights! All right, go get some chow - I'll see you all later."

* * *

Jamie wakes with a start, her eyes straining into the blackness as she fights through the grogginess that accompanies her fitful nap. She groans as she moves her head - leaning up against the firewall in the Stryker to sleep had not been such a good idea. Now she has a crick in her neck that shows no signs of going away.

Jamie squints her eyes as a dim red light suddenly illuminates the interior of the Stryker. She glances up towards the turret and sees the grinning face of her Assistant Squad Leader, Zack Clark, grinning down at her.

"Somethin' funny, trooper?" Jamie growls in a rusty voice.

"Just you, oh fearless leader," Zack replies with a smile.

"Ha ha," Jamie says, pulling the blanket off of her and trying, without much success, to fold it neatly in the cramped confines of the crew compartment of her combat vehicle. Finally she just gives up and wads it into a ball, stuffing it against the firewall.

"What time is it, Zack?" she asks.

"Zero one twenty eight," Zack replies. "You should go back to sleep. Platoon daddy's gonna be pissed if he knows you're up."

Jamie grins. She knows Zack is right. Their platoon sergeant would take a chunk out of her ass if he knew she was awake. Still, she had over three hour uninterrupted sleep - that was the most she had at one stretch for at least two weeks.

"I'm gonna check the troops." Jamie fumbles for her load bearing vest and helmet. "When do you wake Logan?" She indicates a figure hunched in an uncomfortable-looking position in the driver's seat.

"Zero two," Zack replies. Jamie nods and opens the ramp door.

"Be right back," she says, and, without waiting for an answer, clumsily steps through the door and out into the cold night air. Jamie reaches into the vehicle, grabs her rifle, then shuts and secures the ramp door.

Before "trooping the line," she decides to pay a quick visit to the squad field latrine, where she fights to remove her combat gear, does her business in the damp cold, then struggles back into her load bearing vest.

_Guys got that part easy,_ she says to herself.  _All they need is a handy tree._

Jamie debates for a moment whether or not to use her night vision goggles, now perched on her helmet, and decides against it. Her night vision was good and hadn't been affected at all by the red light that Zack had turned on. She picks her way carefully to Bunker One, hearing the thin layer of snow creak under her feet.

"Comin' in," she announces softly at Bunker One, and is immediately challenged by a soft voice from inside the bunker.

"Venom," the voice says.

"Soda," Jamie answers immediately, stepping into the bunker. Inside it's darker than it had been inside the Stryker, but, even so, Jamie can make out the gun port slit - a lighter rectangle against the blackness.

"Who's on watch?" Jamie asks.

"Snow," the voice answers. Private First Class Richard Snow, former deserter and prior pain in the ass, had, in the last ten-plus weeks, really done a turnaround and was now one of the better soldiers in Jamie's squad.

"Get any sleep?" Jamie asks.

"Some," Snow replies. "I'm off at two. Going back to bed then. Christ, but it's fuckin' cold!"

"That it is, Snow, that it is," Jamie answers with a chuckle. "Okay, show me your claymore detonators."

"Here," says Snow, as a dim red light illuminates the interior of the bunker. To the left of the automatic grenade launcher sat three detonators for claymore anti personnel mines...curved pieces of plastic explosive imbedded with hundreds of stainless steel BB's - in effect, a giant explosive shotgun that would spray BB's out in a deadly arc when detonated.

"Good," says Jamie. "Now where's your fougasse detonator?"

Snow shines the light to the right of the grenade launcher, where a solitary detonator was resting. This would ignite the fougasse - a mix of gasoline, motor oil and laundry soap that gave the gas a jelly-like consistency. The fougasse was poured into half steel drums partially buried at a forty-five degree angle with the open end facing the concertina barbed tape fence. A single block of plastic explosive was taped to the base of the drum. When detonated, the explosive would ignite the fougasse and spray the flaming mixture towards the fence. Each bunker had a single fougasse bomb.

Jamie examined the grenade launcher. Normally the grenade launcher would be mounted on the rear deck of the Stryker, but, like the fifty caliber machine gun, had been dismounted and set up on a tripod. Bunker Two, to the Stryker vehicles immediate left, had the fifty mounted on a tripod, while Bunker Three, to the right of the Stryker, had as its heavy weapon the Squad Automatic Weapon, or SAW, a man portable light machine gun.

Jamie experimentally swiveled the grenade launcher on its tripod and was gratified to feel the barrel strike limiting stakes on both the left and the right of the barrel.

"Ever fire this, Snow?" Jamie asks, stepping away from the weapon.

"No, Sergeant," Snow replies. "Just loading drills and dry firing."

"We're due for range time next week," Jamie tells him, "We'll get you time on this bloop gun then."

"Sounds good," Snow replies quietly.

"Okay, trooper, stay sharp." Jamie turns to leave, then stops. "Snow?"

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"You - you're doing good," Jamie says awkwardly. "Keep it up."

Jamie had been dead set against him being assigned to her squad a few months back. Richard Snow had been a deserter - a "runner" - who had to be forcibly returned to duty. By rights, and in accordance with a Presidential Executive Order, he should have been summarily executed - but having your oldest sister married to an influential United States Senator got him a second chance instead. At first his performance been marginal at best - but since the impacts of the Shiva comet fragments and the asteroid Mjolnir, he had become a different soldier - one that Jamie had rewarded with his promotion to Private First Class just a couple of weeks before.

"Thanks," Snow says in surprise.

"Just make sure you get some sleep when you get off shift," Jamie says sternly, then turns on her heel and leaves.

Climbing out of Bunker Three, she starts to make her way to Bunker Two when she's surprised by a figure loom up out of the darkness in her path. Jamie quickly snaps her rifle up and thumbs the safety from "Safe" to "Auto" in one smooth motion.

"Venom," she hisses angrily. The figure skids to a halt in front of her.

"Soda! Jesus, Sarge, don't shoot! It's Logan!"

Jamie relaxes a bit at the familiar voice. "Logan? What the  _fuck_  do you think you're doing? You wanna get shot?"

"Sorry," the man says in a shaky voice. "Sergeant Clark told me to find you ASAP. Said there's something going on out at the LP."

Jamie frowns as she falls in behind Logan as they both move quickly back to the Stryker. "Something" going on at the listening post - manned tonight by three Third Squad troopers - meant only one thing - they're hearing something, and that something has them spooked.

* * *

Logan raps sharply on the ramp door with the butt of his rifle -  _tap tap, tap tap, tap_  - and works the latch, then climbs in. Jamie follows him closely. She watches as Logan climbs back into the driver's seat - not to go back to sleep, though. He removes his helmet and replaces it with his Combat Vehicle Crewman's (CVC) helmet, then settles into the seat, fully alert.

Zack is standing up in the turret, his eyes glued to the sighting system that provided optics for the three main Stryker weapons - the thirty millimeter chain gun, the coaxial mounted machine gun, and the Spike anti tank missiles. Jamie taps him on the leg, and Zack glances down at her in irritation.

"What's going on?" Jamie asks.

Zack shrugs. "Fuck if I know. LP's reporting movement - 'scraping sounds,' whatever the hell  _that_  means, but they can't see anything with night vision. I've tried the Starlight scope, straight optics, and thermal imaging, and getting zilch."

Jamie consults the sketch of the platoon defensive perimeter taped to the wall next to the radio. The triple concertina fence was fifty meters to their front. Each squad had four fougasse bombs emplaced a meter or two behind the wire, well dug in and camouflaged. If an enemy force was at the wire the fougasse would be detonated, spraying flame over a wide area and engulfing whoever was trying to breach the wire.

About ten meters behind the wire was the string of LP's - miniature bunkers, with solid overhead cover flush to the ground, barely big enough for three troopers with all their equipment. Their job was to listen for anything unusual, then try to pinpoint the sounds with their night vision and report back to the platoon leader and sergeant what they were seeing and hearing. They had both a portable radio and a field phone for this purpose. The LP's were offset from the fougasse bombs so they wouldn't be directly in line if the fougasse had to be detonated. Everyone hated LP duty. If the "shit hits the fan" the troopers in the LP were stuck until the firing stopped. If they tried to return to the bunker line chances are the would be cut to ribbons by both enemy and friendly fire.

About twenty-five meters behind the LP string the claymore mines were emplaced. These would not be detonated unless the concertina wire was actually confirmed as being breached. Fifteen meters behind the claymore line was the last line of defense - the line of bunkers and dug in Stryker combat vehicles.

"Have you tried the IR spot?" Jamie asks thoughtfully. An infrared spotlight was mounted coaxially with the turret guns, and was great at cutting through bad weather. The only drawback was that if they were being observed by someone using night vision, the IR spot would give away their position just as surely as if they had turned on the Stryker's headlights.

"No," Zack replies. Before Jamie can answer, the field phone hanging next to the radio clatters loudly. Jamie reaches over and pulls the handset free, puts the receiver to her ear, and presses the push-to-talk button.

"Wise," she says curtly.

"I thought I told you to get some sleep," replies the voice of her platoon sergeant.

"Had to take a leak," Jamie answers truthfully.

"Uh huh," the platoon sergeant says. "Never mind - you're off the hook for now. Get 'em up, Jamie - one hundred percent alert until further notice. Out."

"Roger, out," Jamie replies as she hangs up the phone. "Logan!"

"Yeah," comes Logan's voice from the driver's seat.

"One hundred percent alert. Hit the bunkers, pass the word, then get your ass back here."

"Got it," Logan says, already moving from his seat. He clumsily brushes past Jamie and disappears out the ramp door. Jamie closes the door with a thump and turns back to Zack.

"Zack, let's fire up the IR spot," Jamie begins, before Zack holds his hand up.

"Stand by," Zack says, his eyes glued to the sight. "On thermal again, and - yes! Got it! Between third and second squad!"

"What'dya got?" Jamie asks.

"Just flashes - glimpses. A hand - no, hands. And a - wait a minute, no, two - faces. Shit, they're gone now!"

"What? That can't be! Unless -" Jamie says.

"Unless they're wearing thermal resistant clothing," Zack finishes grimly.

"No way.  _We_  don't even have that shit!" Jamie says, even as she grabs the field phone and cranks the handle.

"Yes?" The calm voice of her platoon sergeant answers.

"Contact." Jamie reports, fighting to remain calm. "Between second and third. Confirmed two unsubs."

"Copy two unknown subjects between second and third," the voice repeats back. "Inside or outside the wire?"

Jamie can feel herself redden at the question - that's something she should have thought of. "Stand by," she replies, then turns to Zack. "Inside or outside, Zack?"

"Out," Zack replies, squinting through the thermal sights. "I count two more. They appear to be moving away from the fence now."

"Outside," Jamie reports. "Two more confirmed. Four total. All appear to be moving away from the wire." Silently Jamie congratulates herself on remaining calm - "keeping her shit wired tight" - as she awaits the reply.

"Copy. Out."

"Is Logan back yet?" Zack asks.

"No," Jamie replies.  _He needs to hurry his ass up!_

"Shit," Zack says quietly. "Jamie, crank this beast up, will ya? I'm using a lotta juice up here."

"Got it," Jamie replies. With practiced movements, she turns off the radio (to prevent damage from power surges when the engine starts), then reaches in the driver's compartment, turns on the Master Switch, then presses the start button.

The engine turns over smoothly, then catches, sending a slight vibration through the Stryker. Zack grunts in satisfaction as he immediately swivels the turret towards the spot in the wire between second and third squad. Jamie immediately turns the radio back on.

Jamie puts her helmet on and reaches for the ramp door handle. "I'm gonna see what's takin' Logan so damn long," she says. Zack says nothing, his attention fixed on whatever he was looking at through the sights.

Jamie smiles, shakes her head, and unlatches the door. As it begins to swing outward she pauses for a moment when she hears Zack exclaim, "What the  _fuck_?"

Jamie frowns and turns back to Zack. She opens her mouth to ask him what was wrong, but before she can say a word she and Zack both hear a new noise coming from outside the Stryker.

_Wuhf, wuhf, wuhf, wuhf, wuhf, wuhf_  - the sound gradually getting louder...followed by a terrific explosion.

The concussion from the blast slams the ramp door back against the opening as the Stryker rocks and sways. The unlatched door begins to swing outward again as Jamie lunges for the handle, grabbing it and pulling the door closed and slamming the latch down, even as a second, third, and fourth explosion rocks the vehicle.

Jamie's knocked backwards by the concussive blasts. "Incoming!" she manages to gasp out as she fumbles for the field phone.

"Ya think?" Zack shouts as he slews the turret around violently. "I'm on the flash from the tubes. Mortars. Permission to engage?"

"Fuck yes ENGAGE!" Jamie shouts.

"ON THE WAY!" The Stryker rocks as the thirty millimeter chain gun roars to life. Outside the explosions continue. Jamie fumbles for the field phone only to find the line is dead.

"Phone's out!" She shouts.

Zack triggers off another burst. "Line's probably cut," he replies. "Grab the radio. Eltee wants a SITREP."

_A Situation Report? NOW?_ Jamie grabs the radio handset and holds it to her ear.

"- all Juliet elements, this is Juliet Six Actual, SITREP, over." The Eltee's voice crackles in Jamie's ear.

Taking a deep breath, Jamie depresses the push-to-talk button. "This is Juliet One Six Actual. Contact. Out." Jamie tosses the handset down as Zack continues to hammer away at his targets.

Outside, the explosions stop suddenly. "You get them?" Jamie asks. Outside, Jamie and Zack could hear sounds of firing - the rhythmic  _bloop, bloop, bloop_  of the automatic grenade launcher, the unmistakable sound of the big fifty firing in short, controlled bursts, the ripping cloth sound of the lightweight SAW, and the sporadic crackle of individual rifles.

"Fuck if I know," Zack replies, "Looks like they stopped firing, anyway."

"I'll be right back," Jamie says, opening the ramp door once more.

"Where're you goin'?" Zack asks incredulously.

"Find Logan. Check on the rest of the squad." Jamie replies as she steps into the darkness. Immediately she drops her night vision glasses down over her eyes and turns them on, turning night into a green, monochromatic daylight. She turns and shuts the ramp door, ignoring Zack's protests.

Jamie can still hear firing coming from her three bunkers. She pulls a pen flare - so named because the small launcher resembles an ink pen - fits a flare to the launcher, and fires. The small flare arches up into the night in front of her squad's positions and bursts in a brilliant shower of green stars - the signal to cease fire. Quickly she fits another and repeats.

"Cease fire! CEASE FIRE!" She shouts. Within seconds the firing stops. Jamie trots to Bunker Three and, from there, Two and finally Bunker One. The three occupants of each bunker report no casualties. Jamie tells each bunker to send one soldier back to the Stryker for ammunition re-supply.

Moving back toward the Stryker, Jamie sees a figure making its way toward her squad. Through the night vision glasses she recognizes the squat frame of the platoon sergeant.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, may I have your SITREP now?" He asks sarcastically.

"Sorry," Jamie mumbles. "I was a bit busy earlier." Quickly she appraises him of her squads' status and situation.

"Casualties?" The platoon sergeant asks.

"Logan. MIA." Jamie had, so far, been unable to locate Logan, although each bunker reported that he had advises them to go on full alert.

"I'll pass the word with the other squads - tell them to watch for him," the platoon sergeant says. "In the meantime -"

_Wuhf, wuhf, wuhf, wuhf, wuhf, wuhf._

"Shit! INCOMING!" Jamie drops where she stands, covering her helmeted head with her arms, feeling completely exposed out in the open. She can feel the earth tremble as explosion after explosion rocks the area. Dimly she's aware of her squad bunkers and the Stryker returning fire again, but has no idea of the effect, if any, that her guns are having.

A new sound. A deeper roar than the mortars, followed by a buzzing noise that grew rapidly louder, and another explosion. But this one was different - because right after the detonation she can hear the unmistakable sound of human screams.

Jamie risks lifting her head up, just in time to see a fireball streaking in from the perimeter to hit her Stryker with a glancing blow, careening off the top of the turret, tearing away the antenna array in the process. The fireball sailed deeper into the perimeter and exploded somewhere behind her. Even as the mortar shells continue to explode, Jamie realizes what that fireball was.

An anti-tank missile.

She could see her Stryker still firing, the big chain gun booming in short, measured bursts.  _Tear 'em a new asshole, Zack!_  She says to herself fiercely as she low crawls to the nearest bunker opening. She glances behind her quickly to see the platoon sergeant following her.

"Venom!" A shaky voice calls out, immediately answered by the platoon sergeant's calm voice.

"Soda. Relax, trooper." Jamie looks around and realizes that they've ended up in Bunker Two. The big fifty caliber continues to bark out three and four round bursts. Outside the mortar shells continue to fall.

"What do you see?" Jamie asks the machine gunner. The girl points out into the darkness.

"Out there - now! See it?" Jamie sees a brief, distant flash, followed seconds later by more explosions to her rear.  _Why the hell aren't_ our _mortars firing?_ She says to herself. The machine gunner triggers three quick answering bursts, the tracers arcing out, disappearing near where Jamie saw the flashes.

Jamie feels a hand on her shoulder, and turns to see the platoon sergeant peering through binoculars. Only now she can see that he's holding a small portable radio and is speaking into it urgently. Within seconds Jamie can hear the unmistakable sound of their own mortars firing, and blossoms of fire erupting all around where they saw the other mortars flash just seconds ago.

"I believe that calling a fire mission is something that every squad leader should have been doing, instead of running around, dodging mortar rounds, and playing John Wayne." The platoon sergeant says mildly.

_John who?_  Jamie can feel herself flush - because she knows that he's right. She doesn't answer, but instead turns back to peer out of the firing slit into the darkness.

She's looking back toward the part of the fence where the scraping sounds had been reported earlier when suddenly her night vision glasses flare up in overload as a new explosion, much bigger than the mortar or anti tank missiles, lights up the night sky.

Jamie rips the glasses off of her face, blinking rapidly to try to clear the spots in front of her dazzled eyes, even as the concussion from the blast shakes the bunker and debris rains down. The platoon sergeant is once again talking quickly into his radio as Jamie can see and hear the mortars shifting their fire, detonating instead to the front of the bunker line - but these detonations are different.

Suddenly the whole area to their front is lit up as flares burst overhead, slowly drifting down on parachutes. Jamie can now see a thick layer of smoke hovering like fog over the ground.  _Smoke rounds! Those were smoke rounds! But why?_

Jamie gets her answer quickly as the platoon sergeant taps her on the shoulder, then points off in the direction of the new, louder explosions. Jamie gasps as she sees huge gaps in the concertina wire and immediately realizes what's happened, even as people, firing weapons as they move, pour through the gaping holes.

Bangalore torpedos. Tubes filled with explosive - designed to blow holes in barbed wire obstacles.

As she watches Jamie sees the third squad's four fougasse bombs explode, sending sheets of flame over the fence and over the people pouring through the holes. One fiery flower after another blooms up in the night as both the third and second squads blow their fougasse bombs. Jamie can see the orange glow even through the thick screening smoke. She imagines that she can hear the inhuman screams of human beings being roasted alive.

"Light 'em up," the platoon sergeant says calmly. Jamie swivels around and stares at him, not entirely understanding what he was saying.

"Hit your fougasse. Do it!" Jamie turns back to the firing slit, picks up the detonator, flips the safety bale down, and firmly depresses the plunger.

Fifty meters to her front, Jamie watches in fascination as the fougasse sprays out in a fiery arc. Her other bunkers and Zack, still in the Stryker, quickly blow their fougasse in a ragged volley. As the screening smoke starts to slowly clear Jamie can see that ladders had been thrown across the wire in front of her position, and she can see bodies hanging limply in the wire.

_I did that,_  she says to herself, choking back the bile rising in her throat.  _I killed those people!_

A hand grips her shoulder firmly and pulls her around. Jamie finds herself staring into the face of her platoon sergeant. It's too dark to see his expression, but she can clearly see his eyes shining in the reflected light.

"Get it together! You got a battle to fight!" The man shakes her shoulder firmly, then shoves her back around without another word.

Jamie blinks rapidly, focusing on what's going on to her front. She realizes that they are now taking small arms fire, but the incoming mortars and missiles seem to have stopped. More illumination rounds burst overhead, casting an eerie, flickering light over the battle.

Jamie peers out at the scene in front of her. The small arms fire that they are taking is sporadic. The once-solid wall of flame that marked the concertina fence in her section of the perimeter has died down to small, individually burning fires. Jamie tries not to think about what's actually burning on the fence. She can hear her own squad still firing, but her troopers are carefully selecting targets now - a short burst here, two or three quick shots there. Her heavy weapons are silent.

"Cease fire," Jamie says suddenly. "Cease fire!" She crawls out of Bunker Two, trailed by the platoon sergeant. An eerie calm once again settles over the perimeter.

"Cease fire! CEASE FIRE!" She calls out, then runs to Bunker Three and finally to Bunker One as the firing finally stops. Jamie can see the platoon sergeant making his way toward second squad as she turns and dog-trots back to her Stryker.

Jamie climbs through the ramp door, shutting it firmly behind her, and joins Zack in the turret.

"Nice of you to join me," Zack says dryly.

"Sorry," Jamie replies. "Got kinda busy out there. You okay?"

"Aside from having to change my shorts when I get the chance, yeah, I'm just peachy. You?" Zack's voice trembles almost imperceptibly as he answers Jamie.

Jamie glances sharply at Zack and notices his hands trembling slightly as he rests them lightly on the gun controls. It's only then that she notices her own trembling hands. Unconsciously she balls her hands into tight fists, digging her nails into her palms.

"I'm okay," Jamie replies simply. "I couldn't find Logan."

"Shit." Jamie knows that Zack and Logan were pretty tight. She decides to say nothing more for now on the subject of her missing trooper. She reaches over her head and pops the commander's turret hatch open.

Zack glances at her in surprise but says nothing as Jamie pulls herself up and surveys the scene to her front. Her night vision glasses give the scene an almost unearthly glow. Jamie can smell the heavy odor of burned cordite from the burst mortar rounds mingling with the sharp tangy scent of gunpowder and the headache-inducing oily smell of fougasse - and another odor that she can't immediately identify.

Jamie sniffs the air curiously, trying to identify that last, elusive scent - and when it finally hits her, she barely has time to turn her head as she vomits violently down the side of the turret.

Burned meat. A lot of it.

Zack cracks open the gunner's hatch and cautiously stands up, regarding his squad leader with concern.

"You know, I'm gonna have to clean up all that puke," he says conversationally as he hands Jamie his canteen.

Jamie shakily wipes her mouth and takes the canteen, quickly rinsing her mouth and spitting the water out, then handing the canteen back to Zack.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "I'll take care of it when it gets light. It's just that - that smell - got to me. You don't smell it too?"

"Yeah, I smell it." Zack says, almost spitting the words. "That's the smell of those fucks that tried to kill me." He points at the stump of the antenna array towards the rear of the turret. "If that missile was twenty centimeters lower we wouldn't be having this conversation. So what's your point?"

"My point? My point?" Jamie laughs humorlessly. "Zack, those are  _people_  out there that we killed! That smell is the smell of  _human beings_  that we just barbequed! And that doesn't bother you?"

"We killed cockroaches, not people," Zack replies, hate filling his voice. "And don't start up on me,  _Sergeant!_  I've been to the same briefs that you have. Those bleeding hearts from psy-ops want us to feel  _sorry_  for them! They're not 'Raiders,' they're hungry, scared, sick 'people!' Well, I've got news for you! 'People' stay in their refugee camps where we can work at taking care of them! 'People' don't attack isolated farms and ranches, killing their rightful owners and taking everything not nailed down! 'People' don't desert and take up arms against their lawful government! You know, the only one that really saw what was gonna happen was that Brain Trust shrink, Boggs - and he got his ass run outta here!"

"Calm down, Zack," Jamie says urgently. Zack stares at Jamie for a moment, then suddenly swivels the turret around ninety degrees to their left, and points with a shaking hand.

"Take a look! Have you seen third squad's Stryker?" Jamie peers out in the direction that Zack is pointing and gasps loudly.

At the far end of their portion of the perimeter, the Stryker that had been assigned to third squad sits quietly, still smoking, its turret askew. Through her night vision glasses, Jamie can make out a figure hanging limply out of the commander's hatch. The body is burned too badly for her to make out who it is. Jamie suddenly realizes that she heard the death of this Stryker without even realizing at the time what had happened.

Wordlessly, Zack swivels the turret back to its original position. Both he and Jamie stare out towards the concertina fence for a few moments.

"You know," Zack says quietly, "We're all hungry. And sick. And scared. I have no idea if my family's still alive, or where they are. We're here, trying to put things back together again. And these  _vermin_  -" he points out towards the fence "- attack us - for what? A few days' supply of food? Weapons? What?"

Jamie shakes her head, unsure of what to say. Zack made some valid points, but still, that smell was still hanging in the air. But before either Jamie or Zack could say anything, a faint voice is carried into the perimeter.

"It is God who arms me with strength, And makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of deer, And sets me on my high places. He teaches my hands to make war, So that my arms can bend a bow of bronze. You have also given me the shield of Your salvation; Your right hand has held me up, Your gentleness has made me great. You enlarged my path under me, So my feet did not slip."

"What the fuck?" Jamie says quietly, glancing at Zack in astonishment, before the voice continues.

"Psalms 18:32 - 36, brothers and sisters! In that mountain is evil! And it's up to us to destroy it!" The voice pauses for a moment before continuing.

"When the righteous prosper, the city rejoices; when the wicked perish, there are shouts of joy. Proverbs 11:10, brothers and sisters! We are the righteous! They are the wicked! And we will shout for joy when they perish!"

This time both Jamie and Zack could hear faint cheers. Jamie feels a chill run down her back as the words sink in, and realize that she's hearing none other than the newly self-ordained minister, "Reverend" Rain Wallace.

"Still think they're people?" Zack asks quietly before he drops back down into the Stryker.

* * *

Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise stares down at Logan's body. Logan was sprawled out on his back between Bunker One and the start of First Platoon's portion of the perimeter. His face was gone.

"Who found him, Eltee?" Jamie asks quietly. Beside her, Zack is staring dumbly at the mangled body.

"First Platoon," the Lieutenant replies quietly. "My guess is he had finished passing the word about the one hundred percent alert when the mortar shells started dropping. He got turned around in the confusion and was caught by one."

"And we're sure it's him?" Jamie asks.

"He was wearing his dog tags." The Lieutenant replies. "Logan makes three confirmed KIA from this morning, including the two from third squad's Stryker. The driver's alive. She's been taken by medevac to the Two Ninety Second."

"One more MIA, sir," Jamie says. "Private First Class Richard Snow. He was sent out for ammo re-supply during a lull in the battle. His bunker reports he never came back."

"He made it to the ammo supply point," the platoon sergeant says.

"Pass the word," the Lieutenant says. "Keep an eye out for Snow. He's around somewhere."

"Yes, sir," the platoon sergeant says.

Just then, three haggard, wild-eyed soldiers pass by, each escorted by a medic. As they walk by, Jamie can hear one of them muttering, "Never fuckin' again. Never FUCKIN' again!" Another is weeping silently. The third is just staring straight ahead.

The Lieutenant waits until the group passes, then turns back to Jamie. "That was the LP from last night. We're taking them back to the aid station to be checked out, but they don't seem hurt."

_Physically, anyway,_  Jamie says to herself.

"Engineers will be here within the hour to repair the wire and to emplace new fougasse," the Lieutenant says. "Looks like our platoon took the worst of it last night. No other wire breeches have been reported."

A medic trots up, carrying a stretcher. The medic gulps when he sees the body sprawled out on the snowy ground, then kneels and unfolds the stretcher. Looking pale, he turns back and says, "I could use a little help, here."

"I'll do it," Zack immediately replies, and the two men gently roll Logan's body onto the stretcher. Zack grunts a little as he and the medic pick up the stretcher, but says nothing as they carry Logan back to the aid station.

"Someone should be out from Division Signal to repair your antenna array later on today," the Lieutenant says. "In the meantime, get some rest." He claps Jamie on the shoulder, then he and the platoon sergeant turn and walk briskly towards Second Squad.

Wearily, Jamie trudges back to the Stryker, climbs in, and tries to sleep. But every time she closes her eyes all she sees are burning bodies, corpses without faces, and a missing trooper that never returned to his bunker with the ammo he was sent to get. 


	16. COUP D'ETAT

**CHAPTER 16 - COUP D'ETAT**

**MONT-LAURIER, QUEBEC - EARLY OCTOBER, 2070**

"Major Holmes?"

Major Nate Holmes comes instantly awake at the sound of his name. His eyes snap open, squinting up into the gloom of the small room. He takes a single deep breath before replying.

"What is it, Marine?"

"We just received an encrypted message, sir. From Cheyenne Mountain. Captain Hart said to get you right away, sir." The young Marine replies. Holmes grunts and peers at his watch. Zero five fifty two hours. He'd been asleep just over four hours. With a sigh, he swings his legs over the side of his cot, shivering a little as the cold early morning air hits his skin.

"Thank you, Lance Corporal," Holmes says gruffly. "Please tell Captain Hart that I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Aye aye, sir," the Marine replies, coming to attention before leaving the room. Holmes flicks the light switch, grumbles when the light stays dark, then reaches over to light a small oil lantern next to his bed.

Quickly getting dressed, Holmes buckles his pistol belt, places his helmet firmly on his head, extinguishes the lantern, and steps outside. He recoils slightly as the freezing wind blows snow into his face.

Wrapping his scarf a little tighter around his neck, Holmes trudges over to the building where he had established his command post (also known as a CP) for the One Hundred Third Special Transportation Company. He passes a pair of guards outside the building - one Marine and one Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Both come to attention, with the Marine smartly saluting his commanding officer. Returning the salute, Holmes murmurs his thanks as the Mountie opens the door for him.

Holmes allows himself a moment to enjoy the feel of the warm air of the CP hit his face as he removes his helmet, then, tucking his helmet under his arm, steps through another door into what he always thought of as the "nerve center" - the Tactical Operations Center, or TOC.

"Attention on deck!" Chairs scrape the floor as the few Marines on duty jump to their feet to stand at attention.

"As you were - siddown for Christ's sake," Holmes snaps as he spies his Executive Officer standing near the communications center, carefully reading a paper in her hands. Holmes studies her carefully and comes up with a quick conclusion.  _She looks confused, and scared. No, not scared - concerned._ Striding over to the comm center as everyone else returns to their duties, Holmes gratefully pauses as a Marine Sergeant wordlessly hands him a cup of coffee.

Holding the cup in his chilled hands, Holmes takes a careful sip before speaking.  _It's weak_ , he says to himself,  _probably second or third brewing for these grounds._

"You got something for me?" He asks Captain Stephanie Hart. Hart looks up from the paper at her commander, absently scratching the back of her head. Her collar length auburn hair is held in place in the back by a single elastic band. Wordlessly she hands Holmes the paper.

Holmes quickly scans the document, his widening eyes the only change in his expression. Alarmed, he looks up at Hart, meeting her patient gaze.

"Who else knows about this?" Holmes asks.

"You, me, and Sparks," Hart replies, tilting her head towards the Communications Sergeant sitting in front of the console. Holmes looks around the room until he spots the Lance Corporal that had awakened him earlier. Catching the Marine's eye, Holmes beckons him over.

The young Marine responds immediately. "Yes, sir?"

"Go find Mr. Coin and Superintendent Pearcy and have them please join me here ASAP.

Captain Hart and I will be in my office." Holmes orders.

"Aye aye, sir," the Marine replies, then practically runs out of the room to carry out his orders. Holmes turns to the Communications Sergeant.

"Sparks, I don't have to tell you -" Holmes begins.

"I know, Major," the sergeant interrupts. "It's in the vault."

Holmes puts his hand on the man's shoulder and squeezes firmly. "I knew that. Thanks." Without waiting for a reply Holmes beckons to Hart, and together the two officers enter the inner office and firmly shut the door behind them

* * *

Gregory Coin and Superintendent William Pearcy, commander of the R.C.M.P. detachment in Mont-Laurier, sit expectantly in Nate Holmes' office. After delivering a cup of coffee to each man, Holmes shuts the door and carefully locks it.

"What's this all about, Nate?" Pearcy asks.

Holmes examines the paper in his hand and takes a deep breath before replying. "You two should probably just read this before any discussion." He hands the paper to Pearcy as Coin slides his chair over to read it at the same time.

* * *

HEADQUARTERS

NATIONAL COMMAND CENTER

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO 80914

SPECIAL ORDERS NUMBER 2070-275-01 01 OCTOBER 2070

1\. Alexander Cray has resigned the office of President of the United States effective 1700 hours local time 01 October 2070, due to incapacity as a result of declining health.

2\. Randall Thread, Vice President of the United States, has resigned the office of Vice President of the United States effective 1700 hours local time 01 October 2070, and has declined succession to the Office of President of the United States due to reasons of a personal nature, effective 1705 hours local time 01 October 2070.

3\. Former President Cray and Former Vice President Thread, along with their family members, will be relocated to Albuquerque, New Mexico, per their wishes, at the earliest opportunity. Until such time as said relocation can be effected, they will remain in quarters in the Security Zone, and no longer are a part of the National Command Authority chain.

4\. Until some stability of government, communications, and infrastructure can be achieved and maintained, to include the stabilization of the Presidential Order of Succession, the offices of President and Vice President shall remain vacant.

5\. National Command Authority shall be transferred to a temporary Governance Committee (hereafter referred to as "The Committee") consisting of the following personnel:

Secretary of State Phillip Abernathy - Committee Chairman

Secretary of Defense Leigh Paylor

Secretary of Homeland Security Major General Paul Cresta, United States Marine Corps

Presidential Chief of Staff Daniel Crane

Deputy Presidential Chief of Staff Amanda Dalton

Rear Admiral Quentin Mason, United States Navy

6\. A two-thirds majority vote will be required by The Committee prior to any directives or orders being issued.

7\. A special National Advisory Council (hereafter referred to as "The Capitol Council" or "The Council") has been formed to assist and advise The Committee. The following persons have been selected to sit on The Council:

Lieutenant Commander Charles Smith, United States Navy Representative

Melody Temple-Smith, Jet Propulsion Laboratory Representative

Stuart Flickerman, Community Liaison (Air Transport)

Gertrude Flickerman, Community Liaison (Medical)

Robert Joseph Trinket, Community Liaison (Law Enforcement/Security)

Julia Trinket, Community Liaison (Law Enforcement/Intelligence)

Doctor Elliott Heavensbee, Community Liaison (Medical)

Katharine Heavensbee (Special Intelligence)

Sergeant Robert Christopher, Special Liaison, El Paso County Sheriff's Department

8\. The Council functions in an advisory capacity only and does not have a Committee vote.

9\. Transfer of National Command Authority powers from the Office of the President of the United States to The Committee is effective 1706 hours local time 01 October 2070.

OFFICIAL:

SUSANNA SNOW

MAJOR USAF

ADJUTANT

GOVERNANCE COMMITTEE

* * *

"Well?" Holmes says, once the two men finish reading.

"It looks like a coup," Coin says as Pearcy hands the paper back to Captain Hart.

"Exactly," Holmes says, "A coup. But, from all appearances, a bloodless one."

"We don't know that," Hart says sharply. "Sir, I'm sorry, but all we have is their word that President Cray and Vice President Thread stepped down voluntarily. For all we know, they could both be laying in a shallow grave with bullets in the backs of their heads."

"Or it may be a hoax," Superintendent Pearcy says.

"It's no hoax," Holmes says. "Unless the perpetrators have access to extremely sophisticated communications equipment as well as the current SOI." The use of the unfamiliar acronym causes Pearcy to regard Holmes with a puzzled expression.

"SOI?" Pearcy asks.

"The current Signal Operating Instructions," Hart explains. "It lists daily operating frequencies as well as codes to challenge and authenticate messages. We sent such a challenge on this message and it was authenticated by the sender almost immediately. I agree with the Major. This message is authentic."

"And it's not only authentic - I believe it's accurate," Holmes says. "I know General Cresta, and I'm familiar with Admiral Mason's reputation. Both men epitomize the standard of the United States Military Officer - they're honorable, patriotic men, and neither one would lend his name to something as treasonous as a violent coup."

"How about a bloodless one?" Coin asks sharply.

"Possibly," Holmes says thoughtfully. "IF...and that's a big 'if' - both men felt that the President and the Vice President were unable to discharge their duties. I can see Cray and Thread being 'encouraged' to step down for the 'good of the country' - especially in these times. The only question that I have is regarding these other people...do the names Trinket, Heavensbee, or Flickerman mean anything to anyone?"

"Heavensbee. Katharine Heavensbee." Coin says thoughtfully. "She's a science fiction writer - lives near Colorado Springs. I would guess that Elliott Heavensbee is Katharine's husband. That's the only name I recognize."

Holmes nods thoughtfully. He didn't like dealing with intangibles - and these three names were all wild cards, as far as he was concerned.

"With your permission, Nate, I'd like to share this with my government," Pearcy says.

"Superintendent, how's your communication holding up with the Canadian Provisional Government?" Hart asks.

"Spotty," Pearcy replies. "Ever since they evacuated Ottawa they've been on the move. I'm not entirely sure I even know where they are now. But, something like this - they need to know."

"I agree," Holmes says. "Will, please keep us informed of your efforts."

"Of course," Pearcy replies. A knock on the door prevents him from adding anything more.

"Come!" Holmes calls out. The door opens and the Communications Sergeant enters.

"Another message, Sparks?" Holmes asks.

"Yes, sir," the sergeant replies. "Major - this one is addressed to you personally." He hands Holmes a sheet of paper and quickly exits.

Holmes takes the message and quickly scans it, then laughs humorlessly as he hands the message to Hart.

"The Governance Committee wants the nukes," he says, shaking his head. "I guess they either don't realize that the Saint Lawrence Seaway has been the Saint Lawrence Channel for quite some time, or perhaps they think that I have aviation capability!" He holds his hand out for the message, which Hart promptly returns to him, then finds a nub of a pencil and quickly scribbles a reply at the bottom of the page.

Standing up, Holmes turns to Pearcy. "Will, let me know as soon as you get in touch with your government."

Pearcy opens the door but hesitates before leaving. "I will. You know, Nate, they're just as anxious at getting rid of those nukes as your people are about getting them back. I don't understand their reluctance to grant overflight rights."

Holmes nods but says nothing as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Superintendent leaves. He then notices Gregory Coin hanging back.

"Something, Greg?" Holmes asks.

"Yeah," Coin replies. "The kids. Veronica and Ed. I - there's no chance of me delivering them back to their parents. President and Colonel York are both dead - that's been confirmed."

"True," Holmes says. "So what exactly are you driving at?"

"My duty to them," Coin says uncomfortably. "I mean - there's no precedent for this. I just feel that my agents and I would be of greater use to the United States in some other capacity."

"And?" Holmes asks.

"And...I would like to include a message on the one that you're about to send to this Governance Committee, asking to be officially relieved of protection duties and reassigned to assist in the security of the nukes. I feel that's more critical at this point." Coin says.

Holmes examines the message in his hand, then, grabbing up the same stubby pencil that he used before, scribbles something at the bottom of the page.

"I'll let you know what they say," Holmes says.

"Thanks, Nate," Coin says gratefully as he leaves the command post. Holmes watches him leave, then turns to Hart and hands the message to her.

"Want to take care of getting this sent?" He asks as she scans the message. She nods absently as she reads, then straightens up.

"Aye aye, sir," she replies smartly. "Do you really think that Cheyenne Mountain is gonna send hoverplanes to pick us and the nukes up?"

Holmes chuckles as the two of them walk out of the office. "Not a chance. Just between you and I, I doubt if there's sufficient aircraft available that have to shielding and safeguards necessary for nuclear air transport. Plus, there's the Canadian Provisional Government's reluctance to grant clearance to our hoverplanes. But right now that's the only option - unless they end up doing something with the railway between Grand Falls and Alma."

"I've heard that the railways are pretty much the only option that still exists," Hart says.

"Stephanie, let's face it," Holmes says. "Cheyenne Mountain really gives less than two shits about us...except for the nukes. Lord knows I'd like to get back home, but I just don't see that happening any time in the near future. Now, let's get that message sent, and then you and I need to get some breakfast. I heard a rumor that we may actually have eggs today."

Together the two officers walked out of the command post and headed toward the building that housed their kitchen, both knowing that the meager rations that were available for breakfast would do nothing towards dulling their hunger.

**HEADQUARTERS, COMBINED LAW ENFORCEMENT OPERATIONS - PINE BLUFF, ARKANSAS - EARLY OCTOBER, 2070**

Lucas O'Dair pulls up in front of the granite building that was once, just a few short months ago, nothing more than the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department - but that was then. This is now, and the building, with its sandbagged checkpoints and rolls of concertina wire, now looked more like an embattled military headquarters than a law enforcement building.

Lucas maneuvers his somewhat battered Sheriff's Department pick-up truck into the spot marked "Sheriff" and enters the building, haphazardly returning the salutes of the two soldiers manning the East entrance.

Once inside, Lucas found himself once again silently thanking the building's architect, who had installed an abundance of windows. As spotty as electricity has been, it was nice to be able to maximize natural light - even with the solar panels installed on virtually every roofline and over all the parking areas, Lucas had made the decision that lighting was the last priority for electricity. Communications and office automation were a much higher priority, as were the refrigerators in the morgue - which always seemed to be filled to capacity these days.

It was communications where Lucas was heading now. A high priority, coded message had been received from Colorado Springs earlier in the day, and the ranking military officer, Colonel Taylor Howard, had denied communications permission to send the message to Lucas's PADD. Instead, he received a somewhat cryptic message to report to CLEO (Combined Law Enforcement Operations) as soon as possible for receipt of high priority traffic.

Lucas enters communications to find it to be its usual controlled chaos. He spots Colonel Howard standing near one of the teletype printers, a message in her hands. Her eyes flicker up when Lucas enters the room, then drop back to reading the message.

"Okay, I'm here," Lucas says somewhat irritably. "What's going on?

Howard lays the teletype back in a wire basket before responding. "Let's talk in my office, Luke," she says as she turns toward the communications room door, not waiting for a response.

Lucas quickly falls in beside her as they stride quickly to administration. Taylor Howard was about the same age as Lucas - career Army, a graduate of the United States Military Academy at what used to be West Point, New York. One of the few Combat Brigade Commanders in the United States Army. Beyond that, Lucas knew almost nothing about his Army counterpart.

Lucas greets by name the few people he sees in administration before he and Howard disappear into her office. She quickly shuts and locks the door as she waves Lucas into a chair in front of her desk, and sits down behind her desk, passing a sheet of paper to Lucas as she does so.

"Read this, Luke, and tell me what you think," she says.

Lucas snatches up the paper, more than a little irritated that he had been dragged down her to read a simple message. As he read, however, his eyes got wider and wider, as a couple of "Holy shits" and one heartfelt, but quiet, "Fuck," are the only sounds in an otherwise quiet room. Finally, he finishes, carefully puts the message on the desk, and looks at Taylor Howard.

"What do you think, Taylor?" Lucas asks in a soft, well modulated drawl.

"Honestly, I don't know," the officer replies, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her face with her hands. "'Coup' is such an ugly word. What concerns me is that National Command Authority now rests with a committee."

"They must be pretty like-minded, otherwise I can't see them getting much, if anything, done." Lucas says.

"What puzzles me is who's  _not_  mentioned," Taylor says. "Three cabinet secretaries - but where's the rest? And no mention at all of the Joint Chiefs. And this 'advisory council' - none of these names ring a bell with me."

"Well, if this was a power grab, they're sure being low-key about it," Lucas says reasonably. "No sweeping directives, no executive orders - just this order that really doesn't say much."

"I was saving the best for last," Taylor says, producing another sheet of paper. "Read this."

* * *

HEADQUARTERS

NATIONAL COMMAND CENTER

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO 80914

SPECIAL ORDERS NUMBER 2070-275-05 01 OCTOBER 2070

1\. The Interagency cooperation exhibited by the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department, the Pine Bluff Police Department, the Pine Bluff Detachment of the Arkansas State Police, the Forty-Sixth Heavy Brigade (U.S. Army), and Special Boat Unit Twenty-Two (U.S. Navy), is recognized as the most efficient and effective display of diverse assets working towards the common goal of maintaining the peace yet seen in the North American continent.

2\. Your Combined Law Enforcement Operations has become the model and prototype for similar Joint Interagency Operations in all areas currently under the sphere of influence of the National Command Authority.

3\. Therefore, you are directed to provide any and all Standard Operating Procedures, to include Special and General Orders, as well as procedure manuals, to the National Command Authority by the most expeditious means available not later than midnight on 15 October 2070.

4\. Restoration of law and order in all affected areas is key to maintaining the infrastructure, restoration of vital industry, keeping the peace, and providing for the safety and welfare of all citizens.

5\. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.

OFFICIAL:

SUSANNA SNOW

MAJOR USAF

ADJUTANT

GOVERNANCE COMMITTEE

* * *

"Interesting," Lucas says, handing the order back to Taylor.

"In what way?" The colonel asks.

"Did you notice that the order informing us of Cray's resignation was number one for October the first...and the order directed at  _us_  personally was number five?" Lucas asks. "That tells me that orders two, three and four - at least - were written and directed at other municipalities. I wonder what other places have been directed to do?" Lucas concludes thoughtfully.

"Maybe nothing," Taylor replies. "Maybe you're just reading into this."

"You think so?" Lucas asks.

"No," Taylor replies after pausing to think it over. "And I'm still wondering about the names on both the Committee and the Council. Colonel Carrow is the commander of the Combat Support Hospital there - why isn't  _he_  the medical advisor? And General Phillips is the overall ground force commander for the Zone. He was my very first Company Commander - and you won't find a better field general. But I don't see his name  _anywhere_!"

"Who knows?" Lucas says, shrugging his shoulders. "I just wonder if we'd be held up as such a 'model' if they knew that it's all we can do to 'maintain the peace' around here!"

"Lucas, I think we do pretty well for ourselves," Taylor says defensively.

"Sure we do," Lucas replies sarcastically. "I'm the Sheriff because the old sheriff was killed in a firefight, the Chief of Police is missing in action, the State Police are effectively leaderless, and the SEALS in that Special Boat Unit are total loose cannons!"

"I can handle Quinn," Taylor says tightly.

"Then please inform Lieutenant Commander Quinn that we still have due process around here - and it's not him playing judge, jury, and executioner!" Lucas snaps.

"Sheriff, say what you like," Taylor replies, icily formal, "But Quinn's people are making great strides towards pacifying our little stretch of the Arkansas River - not to mention that stretch of new coastline and wetlands just south of town!"

Lucas rubs his eyes wearily.  _God, I'm hungry! And I am heartily sick of fish!_  He says to himself. Colonel Taylor Howard eyes him coolly.  _What's wrong with me? Taylor and I've been working hand in hand for weeks! Shit!_

"Shit. I'm sorry," Lucas says wearily. Taylor hesitates for a moment, then gives Lucas a crooked grin.

"Fuck it, Luke. Forget it." She pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels out of a bottom drawer and pours two small glasses. Wordlessly the Sheriff and the Colonel toss back their drinks.

"I want to run an idea by you," Taylor says suddenly.

"Shoot," Lucas says.

"It has to do with minor offenses. We can't afford to incarcerate people for misdemeanors. Christ, we can hardly feed ourselves, let alone someone picked up for petty theft." Taylor says.

"No such thing as 'petty' theft anymore," Lucas says grimly.

"You know what I mean," Taylor says impatiently. "Or do you  _really_  want to hang someone for stealing a string of fish, or a quart of milk?"

"I would," Lucas replies. "It's been forever since I tasted fresh milk!"

"Yeah, well, that won't go over too well in the long run," Taylor says. "But I have an alternative."

"Go on," Lucas says warily.

"You aren't gonna like it," Taylor says, taking a deep breath. "In fact, it's downright medieval."

"Spit it out, Taylor," Lucas says impatiently.

"Flogging. Corporal punishment." Taylor eyes Lucas warily.

"You mean - whipping?" Lucas asks in astonishment.

"I knew you wouldn't like it," Taylor says. "But I really can't see too many other options. Even if we put minor offenders to work in some sort of chain gang, we still need to house and feed them. This way the punishment is over quickly - and I think someone sporting a striped back would be a more effective deterrent than a chain gang."

"Flogging," Lucas says, his voice tinged with amazement. "Hell, why stop there? Why not stocks and pillories as well?"

"Luke, I'm serious!" Taylor says indignantly. "Look, I'm not thrilled about the idea, to tell you the truth. Lashing someone to a whipping post and laying a whip across their back is - well, it's repugnant. But if you have a better solution, I'd like to hear it!"

Lucas sits quietly for a moment, trying to ignore his rumbling stomach, as he thinks about Taylor's proposal. Finally, he takes a deep breath and speaks.

"How many lashes?" He asks. "I mean, for minor offenses."

"I'm thinking no more than ten, tops," Taylor says. "Three to five seems more reasonable."

"I must be insane," Lucas mutters. He gets up and goes to the door. Opening the door, he calls out, "Maggie, do you know if Judge Crockett is in chambers today?"

"I believe so, Lucas," the secretary calls back.

"Please send a runner over to his chambers. Give him my regards, and ask if I can have a few minutes of his time today. I need to speak to him about - something important. And if not today, then at his earliest convenience." Lucas says.

"On it, Lucas," the secretary calls back. After thanking her, Lucas firmly shuts the door and turns back to Colonel Taylor Howard.

"I was a bailiff in Judge Crockett's courtroom for almost three years," Lucas explains. "I think we need to get him on board with this 'corporal punishment' idea before it goes any farther."

"And if he's not 'on board' with it?" Taylor asks.

"Then the matter is closed." Lucas says flatly. "Judge Crockett is the Presiding Judge for Jefferson County. I've known him and his family for years. We respect each other. If he says no, that's it."

"Fair enough," Taylor says, then adds, "What do you think he'll say?"

Lucas pauses before answering as he checks a message on his PADD. Unknown trouble out at the University. He sighs and shakes his head wearily as he stands up to leave.

"Oddly enough," Lucas says, turning for the door, "I think he'll say yes. Now if you'll excuse me, Colonel," Lucas says, holding up his PADD, "duty calls."

At the door, Lucas hesitates for a moment, then looks back at Colonel Taylor Howard. "You know, if the Judge says yes, the folks back at Colorado Springs will shit a brick when they see that flogging is part of our 'Standard Operating Procedures.'" Lucas then turns and, without another word, shuts the door firmly behind him as he leaves.

**BETHEL PARK, PENNSYLVANIA - EVERDEEN RESIDENCE - EARLY OCTOBER, 2070**

Michael Everdeen returns the papers to Paul Undersee, Chief of Police for Bethel Park. He scratches his chin thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.

"The Mayor was okay with you showing me these?" Michael finally asks.

"Yeah," Paul replies. "Mike, you're running the show here in everything but name only. The Mayor, the City Council - they're in way over their heads when it comes to shit like this."

Michael is silent for a moment. It was true that, more and more, then city government was turning to him for counsel and advice - but running the show here was the  _last_  thing on his mind. Still, he knew that Paul's words had merit - the locals  _were_  in over their heads.

"Well, for all intents and purposes, Cheyenne Mountain might as well be on the Moon, for all the influence they have here." Michael finally says.

"It's this second order that has me concerned," Paul says. "We're fighting just to get through each day and Cheyenne Mountain wants a  _feasibility study_  to explore getting the coal mines operational again?"

"I thought most of that second order had to do with the steel mills in and around Pittsburgh," Michael replies. "Besides, how many years has it been since anyone's used  _coal_ , for God's sake?"

"It looks like this 'Governance Committee' is starting to think ahead," Paul replies. "Exploring alternative energy sources, maybe."

"What they need to do is figure out how they're gonna feed everyone through the upcoming winter," Michael grumbles, then adds, "Which appears to have settled in nicely here." He gestures toward the window at the coating of snow already on the ground.

"The greenhouses seem to be coming along pretty well," Paul says.

"Yeah," Michael replies. "For now. And, with any luck, no one'll starve."

"At least, not in this house, they won't," Charlotte Everdeen's voice cuts in as she and Victoria Hawthorne enter the room.

"Hello, Charlotte...hello, Victoria," Paul says with a smile.

"Paul," both women reply, almost in unison.

Michael takes the papers from Paul's hand as he asks, "Mind if I show them these?" Without waiting for an answer, Michael hands both orders to Charlotte.

"Read these," Michael says. Charlotte, with Victoria reading over her shoulder, reads through both documents quickly. Their eyes widen a bit as they read but otherwise neither woman has much of a reaction.

"Did you notice who signed both orders?" Michael asks.

"Yes," Charlotte says. "Looks like Susanna, at least, is in good graces with this 'Governance Committee.'"

"And she's been promoted to Major," Michael says with a grin.

"Paul, you didn't by chance get any word about Jack or the others, did you?" Victoria asks hopefully.

"Sorry, Victoria, but no," Paul says quietly, taking the papers from Michael while giving him a reproachful glance.

Victoria tries, and fails, to hide her disappointment - and her worry. "It's been  _weeks_  since we've last heard from him - them," she says with a trace of bitterness and worry in her voice.

Charlotte slides her arm over her friend's shoulders. "Hey, now, Vickie. I'm sure he's okay. After all, they're traveling on bicycles, for God's sake!"

"I know," Victoria replies miserably. "I'd just feel so much better if I could only know for sure!"

There's a few seconds of awkward silence, finally broken by Michael. "We still need to figure out how we're gonna answer these questions about re-activating the coal mines."

"Well, I, for one, think it's pretty ridiculous," Charlotte says dismissively. "I mean - coal mines? Seriously? I can understand the steel mills in Pittsburgh, but - coal mines? This  _is_  the twenty-first century,  _not_  the nineteenth!"

Michael drapes an arm casually across his wife's shoulders. "Well, dear, it can't hurt to look into it, now, can it?" Michael asks reasonably. "Now, on to more pressing problems - what's for dinner tonight?"

Paul Undersee laughs dutifully along with the others, but he knew, probably better than the others, just how much of a problem the chronic food shortages were going to pose.

_At least we're not having the same problems with bandits and raiders like other parts of the country - yet,_  he says to himself.  _Guess it pays to live a little "off the beaten path."_


	17. THE ROAD CONTINUES

**CHAPTER 17 - THE ROAD CONTINUES**

**NATIONAL SEVERE STORMS LABORATORY, NORMAN, OKLAHOMA - LATE SEPTEMBER, 2070**

"Doctor Malarkey?"

Dave Malarkey jerks violently and sits up, knocking his notebook off the desk in the process. He peers up at the young intern standing before his desk. The intern, a young man in his early twenties, was dressed in worn work boots, grubby jeans, and a thermal top that bore the signs of many days' consecutive wear without being laundered.

"Getting so a man can't even steal a power nap any more," Dave grumbles as he bends down to retrieve his notebook. Dave is dressed similarly to the intern, although he was sporting a soiled flannel shirt instead of a thermal.

"Yes, sir," the intern says politely.

"So, why did you wake me?" Dave asks, not unkindly.

"Someone at the Main Gate asking for you," the intern explains. "His name is -" the intern fumbles with his own notebook "- Jack -"

"Hawthorne," Dave whispers. "Son of a bitch made it!" He pushes himself away from the desk and stands up. "Did the guards let him in?"

"No, sir," the intern replies. "They're holding him and his party at the gate."

Cursing under his breath, Dave brushes past the intern and strides into the hallway. He breaks into a run after a few moments, bursting out of the building into the chill air outside. He grabs his bike and pedals furiously down the main access road towards the Main Gate. Sleet blows in his face, but Dave ignores the discomfort as he nears his destination.

Rounding a corner, Dave spots the Main Gate and a group of people standing outside the locked entrance, a collection of bicycles clustered behind them. A pair of impassive guards, rifles cradled casually in their arms, stands on the other side of the gate.

As he draws nearer, Dave notices things about the group. All of the men are sporting ragged beards and shaggy hair. The women have their hair tied back loosely or stuffed under caps. Even at a distance, and in spite of the heavy clothes that they all wore, he can tell that the entire group is thin - and everyone is heavily armed.

Out of breath from his furious bike ride, Dave skids to a stop by the guard shack and glares at the two guards on duty. He recognizes both men as maintenance workers, pressed into extra duty as gate guards.

"Open the gate," Dave snaps.

"Under whose authority, Doctor?" One of the guards asks.

"Mine," Dave replies. "Now open up!"

As the guard fumbles with the ring of keys hanging in the guard shack, a familiar voice rings out from the group waiting not so patiently outside.

"Took your sweet fuckin' time gettin' here, Malarkey," Jack Hawthorne says, irritation tingeing his voice.

"Jack, I expected you weeks ago," Dave replies defensively. "What the hell happened?"

The guard finally finds the right key, inserts it in the lock, and unlocks the padlock. He and the other guard roll the gate open, and the group waiting outside begins to push their bicycles through the opening as soon as there's room enough.

"What  _didn't_  happen, you mean," Jack says tiredly. "Food shortages, having to deal with local militias, bike breakdowns, and all-around shitty weather - like today, for example - has conspired against us. We've been damn lucky to average twenty miles a day."

Dave scans the faces of the group as they enter the NSSL compound. Some, like Jack, Henry Mitchell, Tom Jackson, and Elise Orr he recognizes immediately. He recognizes Morgan Boggs from photographs, although the psychiatrist now sports a salt-and-pepper beard. But the others are, for the present, are gaunt, taciturn strangers.

"Where to?" Jack asks, mounting his bike. Dave climbs back onto his bike as well.

"Follow me," he says and begins to pedal into the compound.

* * *

Dave guides the group toward a small, pre-fabricated steel building known as a "Butler" building, named for its designer, and stops outside.

"Temporary quarters," Dave says as he unlocks the door. "No beds, but it's dry. We're supposed to have electricity later on today. There's a small electric water heater that'll kick on automatically once it gets some juice. It heats up the water quickly but we can't depend on power to stay on for any length of time, so you'll have to decide before the power comes on whether you want to wash clothes or bodies...you won't have enough hot water for both. There are electric space heaters in here, too. Crank 'em up as soon as you can and run them full-bore to get the building heated. These Butler buildings are well insulated and hold heat well."

"And you're  _sure_  we're secure in here?" One of the women - the youngest - asks sharply. Dave glances over at her, trying to remember her name.  _Young or not_ , Dave says to himself,  _this one's dangerous._

"Absolutely," he replies with a smile. The girl just stares at him balefully. "The compound is under constant guard."

"Hmmph," the girl grunts, pulling off her pack and heading toward the door.

"There should be plenty of candles and a couple of lanterns inside," Dave explains. "Don't use the electric lighting - save the power for the heaters."

One by one the rest of the group pulls off their packs and files into the building. Dave exchanges smiles, nods, and murmured greetings with the ones he knew, and some abbreviated greetings to those he didn't know. Jack hangs back, waiting for the others to enter before turning to follow.

"Jack," Dave says softly. "Wait a minute."

"What?" Jack asks irritably. "Dave, I'm tired. I just want to sit for about a year or so - but I'll take a couple of hours here for now."

"This won't take long," Dave replies. Jack looks at him expectantly.

"How long before you're ready to hit the road again?" Dave asks.

"Depends," Jack replies. "On how much we get to eat here, on how much electricity we can get to get some of the funk out of our clothes, and we all could stand to see a doctor - or even a medic that knows which end of the thermometer goes in your ass. We're all sick, Dave - we can use whatever meds your folks here can spare."

"I'll talk to admin," Dave says. "See if they can't stretch our electricity today and make sure we get enough tomorrow for laundry. I'll see about getting a medic over here today or tomorrow at the latest - can't promise if they will be able to give you anything stronger than aspirin, though - and, I can't guarantee that we'll get to leave with any extra food. There just isn't  _anything_  extra here."

Jack nods grimly and absently scratches his beard. "If we get showers today and can wash clothes tomorrow, we can also work on bikes tomorrow too - I think we can hit the road again in forty-eight hours. Will you and Blair be ready by then?"

"We've been ready," Dave answers. "We're doing no good here. Everything in orbit except for Clarke Station is toast, and it's been harder and harder to get anything useful out of them recently. Comm with them is less than an hour a day. We're back to weather balloons and local forecasts, and weather balloons are in short supply."

"I just want you to be sure," Jack says softly. "The road, it's - well, we've seen and we've - done - things that...well, are less than pleasant."

Dave takes a deep breath. "I'm sure. We're ready."

Jack offers Dave his hand solemnly, and Dave grips it firmly. It's the first physical contact between the two men since the group's arrival.

"I guess I better get set up inside," Jack says as he turns to join the others.

"Okay," Dave replies. "I'll send one of our interns - can't ever remember his name, dammit - to get you for dinner. He'll show you where the cafeteria is."

Jack laughs humorlessly. "An  _intern_?" He says incredulously. "You still have interns?"

"Just a few." Dave says in a flat voice. "The ones whose homes were destroyed on Impact Day. The one that I'll be sending to get you for dinner was from Chicago originally. He has no where else to go."

Jack stares at Dave for a few seconds, then nods solemnly and says, "I see. Guess I'll see you for dinner."

"You'll love it," Dave says. "Our version of Stone Soup. You get seconds if you can accurately identify the ingredients. See you later, Jack."

* * *

"What's the meat?" The girl - she was introduced to Dave as Nevaeh - asks warily.

"Trust me, it's easier if you just pretend it's beef," Blair Malarkey says with a smile.

"It's white meat," Nevaeh points out.

"Okay, chicken or pork then," Dave says.

"Christ, Nev, just eat it and shut up!" This from a tall young man who introduced himself to Dave and Blair as PJ, Nevaeh's brother. Nevaeh says nothing, but salutes her older brother with the age-old symbol of a raised middle finger as she continues eating.

The travelers had used the rest of the day to rest and took advantage of the afternoon electricity ration to all take hot showers - their first in several weeks. They were all looking forward to a solid nights' sleep, with no need to post watches.

As Dave had said earlier, the intern came to guide them to the cafeteria late that afternoon. They had all carefully dressed in their least soiled clothing, which wasn't saying much. The intern spoke little as he led the travelers through the NSSL compound to the cafeteria, then wordlessly broke away from the group even as they arrived.

Dinner was, indeed, "Stone Soup," with an unexpected addition - small crumbly biscuits. Jack was quick to deduce that, from the stir they caused, biscuits were not commonplace at meal times.

Jack breaks off a small piece of biscuit, dunks it carefully in the soup, and eats it slowly. He repeats this act several more times until the bread is gone, then sighs and picks up his spoon.

"Good bread, huh, Jack?" Blair asks.

"Delicious," Jack admits.

"Dave made it," Blair says proudly. Everyone at the table turns to look at Dave, who, at the moment, looks decidedly uncomfortable.

"It's nothing, really - an old family recipe," Dave says. "We were just lucky enough to come in to some flour here recently."

"Seriously, Dave, this is really good!" Danielle Cartwright says enthusiastically. "How on earth did you learn to bake like this?"

"When I was a kid," Dave replies pensively, "In the summer we'd go out to Oregon to visit my paternal grandparents and great-grandparents. I loved those trips - walking into my great-grandparents house was like walking into a bakery, you know? How a bakery smells? That was my great-grandparents house. I wasn't quite eleven when they died - my great-grandmother went first and great-grandpa followed maybe six months later. But, before that, as soon as I was old enough they would let me help - kneading dough, working the mixer, you name it. Ever since then I've loved to bake. I've got an index card box with all their recipes - it's the only thing of theirs I wanted."

"Anyway," Dave continues, "Give me the run down on your experiences on the road so far. What can we expect?"

"A numb ass," Brad Cartwright says glumly. Dave and Blair both chuckle at this - until they notice that none of the travelers are laughing. Instead, they're all nodding in agreement.

"Being cold, wet, scared, and hungry - all the time," Tom Jackson adds.

"Seeing the worst of humanity," Morgan Boggs chimes in.

"Worst? In what way?" Blair asks.

"You'll find that out soon enough," Nevaeh says darkly, earning an elbow in her side from her brother. She turns and glares at him but says nothing more.

"Generally, we try to avoid towns and cities," Jack says. "Even if it means a lengthy detour. Not worth the hassle."

"What kind of hassle?" Dave asks.

"Best case scenario is we'll get stopped on the way into a town and told that we can't pass through, so we waste time doubling back and looking for an alternate route. Worst case is that militia in New Mexico." Jack quickly tells Dave and Blair about the incident in Clayton, New Mexico, that resulted in several dead Militiamen.

"The weather slows us down more than anything else, though," Jack says. "And it's steadily getting worse. When we leave day after tomorrow we head South and we'll keep as far south as we can - try to say away from the weather as much as possible."

"Good thinking," Dave says. "We should have a good amount of sun on a southerly route. It'll still be cold, though."

"We've been out of the loop for a while, Dave," Henry Mitchell says. "What's the latest news?"

Dave Malarkey glances around at the assembled travelers before beginning to speak. "I guess I'll start with Colorado Springs," he says.

"Alexander Cray is ill," Dave continues. "Has been for quite some time. With amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Apparently he was diagnosed before the impacts and managed to keep it under wraps. But, from what we've been able to learn, he's also exhibiting signs of frontotemporal dementia."

"ALS  _and_  frontotemporal dementia?" Morgan Boggs says in amazement. "Poor bastard. Do you have any idea how quickly his diseases are progressing?"

"Sorry, no," Dave replies. "Information is sketchy. All we really know is that he won't be able to discharge the duties of his office much longer."

"Which leaves Randall Thread acting as President," Jack mutters.

"And opens up yet another problem," Dave says. "It seems that Thread has a problem that would interfere with him acting in a Presidential capacity."

"What sort of problem?" Tom Jackson asks.

"He's an alcoholic and he's addicted to prescription pain medication," Blair replies, joining the conversation. "His addiction's from a motorcycle accident over twenty years ago."

"Shit," Jack says quietly, stirring his soup with his spoon. "I  _knew_  something wasn't right back in the Zone! We all felt it, didn't we?" Jack addresses this last to his fellow travelers, who all nod and murmur their agreement.

"So who's running the country?" Brad Cartwright asks.

"Running the country?" Dave replies with a bitter laugh. " _No_ one is! Cheyenne Mountain pretends their in control, but their influence only really extends about eighty kilometers or so from the Zone."

"Okay, so who's running  _that_?" Jack asks irritably.

"We're not one hundred percent sure," Blair replies. "We think that there's some sort of ad hoc committee chaired by the Secretary of State that's starting to make some decisions - but that's all the info we've got."

"That won't work for long," Jack says. "You can't govern by committee! It takes one person to make quick, timely decisions - and you don't get that waiting for a committee to vote! I don't care who's chairing it! PJ, Nevaeh - no offense."

"None taken," PJ answers calmly. "I know dad's strengths - he's a statesman, a diplomat - not a politician."

Dave and Blair glance quickly at each other as the realization that PJ and Nevaeh were Phillip Abernathy's children hits them both simultaneously. Dave says nothing as he looks back toward the siblings. PJ was sitting calmly, while Nevaeh was scowling - which, it seemed to Dave, was a fairly natural look for her.

"There's a couple of other things," Dave says, forcing his attention back to the assembled travelers. "Did you have trouble with raiders before you left?"

"We heard about some things - attacks on isolated homes, raids on farms, that sort of thing," Jack replies.

"It's gotten worse," Dave says. "There was a major attack by a quasi-religious group of raiders on the Zone perimeter less than a week ago. Before then, raiders had been probing the perimeter for almost two weeks - sniping, limited attacks, that sort of thing. But this was big. They used mortars, anti-tank missiles, and automatic weapons. There have been other probes since then, too."

"How has it been here?" Danielle Cartwright asks. "I mean, we didn't expect armed guards at the gates here."

"Nothing major," Blair replies. "The locals know that we're just as bad off as they are, food and supply-wise. The problems that we've had here is from the local core of troublemakers - and even they don't bother us much any more."

"So you're still in contact with Clarke Station?" Tom Jackson asks.

"Yes," Dave replies. "Intermittently. And they, in turn, are in contact with Shackleton Base on the Moon, who's in contact with Lowell Station on Mars. How was contact with Clarke before you left?"

"Spotty, like you," Tom says, then adds, "We lost contact with Shackleton and Lowell a couple of weeks after Impact. Like you, we kept tabs on them through Clarke."

"I spoke with Marco Kimbrough personally the night before last," Dave says. "He thinks they're gonna have to abandon Clarke in thirty days or less."

"What? Why?" Henry Mitchell asks, as Jack, Tom, and Elise join in the general explosion of disbelief.

"I thought they were pretty much self-sustainable," Tom adds. "Obviously something's gone wrong."

"They're having problems with power surges," Dave explains. "It seems there's been some recent, fairly vigorous solar flare activity. They're having difficulty with power management. Surges have already damaged some of their life support equipment - Marco says some days it's unbearably hot, other times it's cold enough to see your breath. And it's getting worse."

"And I suppose it's nothing that they can repair?" Jack asks.

"They need replacements for some critical life support equipment," Blair says, shaking her head. "Pre-Impact, it wouldn't have been a problem. But now -"

Jack nods thoughtfully. "Do they have sufficient crew return vehicles to evacuate everyone?"

"Marco says yes," Dave replies. "The big question is - where do they come down?"

The crew return vehicles landed via parachute and could come down just about anywhere. Jack and the others understood Marco Kimbrough's dilemma - where, exactly, do you land on a planet as devastated as the Earth?

"Can we talk to him tonight?" Jack asks. "I'd - it may be my last chance - we're pretty good friends, you know."

Dave smiles. "Let's finish up dinner, then we'll go to Comm and see what they can do. Sorry, but there's no dessert tonight." It was difficult to tell if he was joking about the dessert or not.

"By the way," Dave whispers to Jack, "The meat's rattlesnake. One of the workers stumbled across a nest in early hibernation."

"Somehow I don't think that would bother anyone - especially Nevaeh," Jack replies wryly.

* * *

"It was good talking to Marco last night, Dave," Jack says as he carefully cracked open the single hard boiled egg on his plate. "I just wish I shared his optimism about their chances once they land."

"Like he said, Jack," Dave replies, spooning up a mouthful of grits, "They really don't have much of a choice. Best they come down now while they still have enough power to maneuver the station a bit. Sorry we couldn't get through until last night, by the way - you saw that about all we could do was a few back and forth comm checks two nights ago. Henry, by the way, that was a good idea you had about orienting their orbit to allow them to land in the heartland."

"I figure it's their best option," Henry Mitchell replies, taking a sip of tea. Even though the tea bag had been re-used several times, it was still better than anything they had while on the road. "It's a big target to aim at, the plains are flat so that'll help with landing, and the area is still somewhat stable."

"I almost forgot," Jack says, pulling a burlap sack from under the table. "I'd like to leave this for the folks here." Jack sets the sack on the table as Dave and Blair eye it curiously.

"What is it?" Blair asks.

"The last of our antelope jerky," Jack replies. "It's not much - six or seven kilos is my guess - but we wanted to repay the labs hospitality some way."

"They'll appreciate this," Dave says, then raises his voice. "Cookie! Got a second? Come on out here!"

The man Dave addressed as Cookie emerges from behind the serving line, wiping his hands on a soiled apron. "I don't wanna hear any complaints! I do the best I can with what I've got!"

"No complaints, Cookie," Dave says, handing him the sack with a smile. "Compliments of our friends from Colorado."

Cookie takes the sack and opens it, peering inside. His eyes widen at the sight of the dried meat.

"Thank you so much," Cookie says to Jack. "I know just what to do with this! God bless you, sir - all of you!" After shaking the hand of each of the travelers, Cookie disappears back into the kitchen, clutching the burlap sack tightly.

"Think that'll help?" Jack asks.

"Cookie's a wizard. He'll get the absolute most out of that meat. Not that it'll matter in the long run," Dave says grimly.

"What do you mean, Dave?" Tom Jackson asks.

"This place is dying, that's what I mean, Tom," Dave says bitterly. "It's worthless. Without satellites, without communications, without Doppler radar stations, we can't do shit except guess about the weather a few days from now. It's dying, slowly to be sure - but in six months this place will be completely abandoned."

"That's why you elected to go with us," Jack says. It's a statement, not a question.

"Exactly," Dave says. "Blair and I were from Maryland originally. Well, there's no more Maryland - it's all under water now. We have no home to go to and we both decided that we'd rather stick with people that had some kind of plan rather than sit here and wait to die."

"Speaking of that," Nevaeh says abruptly, standing up. "We're burning daylight. We need to hit the road and make some distance before nightfall."

"She's right," Jack says. He stands up, examining his friend's face closely. "Meet us at the main gate in thirty minutes. Dave, Blair - you still have time to reconsider."

Dave and Blair both stand up. Dave looks Jack in the eye. "See you in thirty minutes," he says, then he and Blair depart the cafeteria without another word.

* * *

Their departure was anti-climactic. No one met them at the gate (Dave explained that he and Blair had said their goodbyes the night before) except for Cookie, who presented each of the travelers - now ten in number - with a small, paper wrapped parcel. "Lunch," he explains. "It's not much, but -"

Each of the travelers thanks him - even the increasingly sullen and taciturn Nevaeh - as they carefully stow the food in their packs. Dave signals the guard to open the gate. Once opened, the travelers pedal through, one by one, and hit the open road.

Dave falls in next to Jack, and the two men pedal in silence for a few minutes. Finally Jack glances over at his new traveling companion and points to the pistol that Dave was wearing in a shoulder holster.

"Ever fire that thing?" Jack asks.

"Yeah," Dave replies. "Why?"

"Just wanted to make sure you knew how to use it," Jack says, then adds, "I think our best bet is to hit Interstate Thirty Five South to the Dallas/Fort Worth area, then pick up Interstate Twenty East."

"Sounds good," Dave says. "We'll probably run into some problems at the Mississippi River, though. Most of the bridges are out."

"I'm not surprised," Jack says. "The surge created by the impact mega-tsunamis must have been incredible."

"Have you run into this before?" Dave asks.

"A few times," Jack replies. "What we had to do was go up or downstream until we found either an intact bridge or some enterprising citizen that was running a ferry service - then haggle with them about the toll."

"Was there any time you couldn't pay?" Dave asks.

"So far, no," Jack replies. "Usually it's food they want. Money - unless it's gold or silver coin - is virtually worthless."

"And what if they're after something other than food?" Dave asks.

"We - negotiate. One way or another." Jack replies. "Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't."

Dave doesn't respond, but instead concentrates on putting kilometers behind them.

**U.S. HIGHWAY 82, TWENTY KILOMETERS WEST OF PARIS, TEXAS - EARLY OCTOBER, 2070**

Brad Cartwright, riding point that morning, saw it first.

The travelers had abandoned the interstate some days before, on the advice of others that they had met on the road. Stay away from the Dallas/Fort Worth area, they had said. The local government there was subjecting everyone to strict discipline - with a dusk to dawn curfew, strict rationing of food and consumables, and forced confiscation and re-distribution of property. Strangers passing through the area were subjected to such heavy tolls that they were lucky to emerge with half the property they entered the area with.

So, after a quick consult of their maps and with the help of fellow travelers, they had decided to cut East along U.S. Highway 82, after first paying a substantial toll to cross the Red River by ferry barge that was being used in place of the destroyed Interstate 35 Bridge. The toll had been steep - precious rifle and pistol ammunition, irreplaceable antibiotics, and a bottle of Tennessee whisky.

Once the crossed the river, the travelers quickly made their way to the junction of Interstate 35 and U.S. 82, and had found fairly smooth sailing. They encountered few people along this route, and most had been heading West. None seemed inclined to talk, most choosing to avoid the travelers. The few that did choose to communicate seemed to be disoriented - even frightened. They were, without exception, bedraggled and most were emaciated - and all were steadfastly trekking West.

The mental and physical condition of the others they had encountered had concerned the travelers, but they all agreed that they needed to keep pushing East. Still, they rode with weapons ready, and with a point rider a hundred or so meters in front of the main body. So when Brad saw it, he stopped - his brain not quite registering what it was he was seeing.

Brad fumbles with his jacket, reaching inside to pull a small pair of binoculars out. Wiping the sleet off of his numb face, he adjusts his woolen scarf over his nose and mouth and pulls his knit cap firmly down over his head before raising the binoculars to his eyes. He brings the glasses into focus and stares, unbelieving, for a few seconds before slowly lowering the binoculars.

Brad hears a bicycle closing behind him and turns to see Morgan Boggs approaching. As he slows, then stops his bike, Boggs regards his fellow traveler with concern before he speaks.

"Brad? Everything okay?" Boggs asks.

"I - I don't know, Boggsy," Brad replies haltingly. He passes the binoculars to Boggs and points down the road, where a series of old-fashioned wooden power and phone poles were aligned on either side of the road, stretching off into the distance towards the city of Paris, Texas. "Take a look," he says.

Boggs peers through the binoculars, then glances over at Brad. "What the hell? Is that what I think it is?"

Brad shrugs his shoulders. "I hope to hell it's not," he replies.

Boggs turns and gestures for the rest of the group to come forward, then turns back to Brad. "Maybe it's just a scarecrow or something," Boggs says doubtfully.

Brad snorts. "It's a good six or seven meters off the ground and there's not a crop in sight," he replies derisively.

Boggs stares off in the distance. "You're right," he says softly. "But I hope you're not."

The rest of the travelers pull up and Jack Hawthorne pedals forward to Brad and Boggs.

"What's up?" He asks, concern on his face.

"Take a look," Boggs says, handing Jack the binoculars and pointing.

Jack brings the binoculars to his eyes and slowly scans the scene before them. Behind him, murmuring and muffled exclamations from the others tells him that other binoculars have been brought into play. Finally Jack lowers the binoculars and wordlessly hands them back to Boggs, who in turn passes them back to Brad Cartwright.

Jack examines the faces of his fellow travelers before speaking. "Well, I think we all have a pretty good idea of what has people around here so scared," he says. "We could double back and see if we can find a route South, or -" he quickly consults his map "- we press on, past  _that_  -" he points East "- until we hit, let's see - County Road Twenty Two Nine Hundred. We can take various county roads and swing wide and South of Paris that way."

"Or, we could just press on through Paris," Dave Malarkey says. "After all, we don't know if Paris is responsible for -  _that_."

"I vote we swing South," Nevaeh Abernathy says. Her brother murmurs his assent.

"Anyone else?" Jack asks. Quickly the group agrees to press ahead but to bypass Paris - except for Dave and Blair Malarkey.

"Okay, then, it's settled," Jack says, then glances at the Malarkeys. "Sorry guys - you're outvoted."

"No problem, Jack," Dave says with a smile. "Democracy in action."

"Okay, let's go," Jack says, mounting his bike. "And, I think we should stick together until we get to this county road we're turning off on."

"No argument from me," Brad mutters as they slow start to pedal down the road. And, as they draw nearer to the line of utility poles, they can all see that it's definitely  _not_ a scarecrow.

The skeletal remains of - well, it was impossible to tell if it was male or female, but it was definitely human - hung several meters off the ground, gently twisting in the light breeze. As they drew nearer, they could tell that whoever it was had been wearing jeans and a dark colored t shirt when they were hung. The hands were bound behind the back, and the ankles tethered together. There was a hand-lettered sign nailed to the pole that read simply, "LOOTER."

"Oh sweet Jesus," Jack hears someone mutter behind him. They pedal slowly on - the travelers realizing, to their horror, that dozens more utility poles have been used for this same purpose. On both sides of the road, they pass corpse after corpse - the early ones, like the first, virtual skeletons, but others appearing to have died much more recently.

It was then that they noticed that the executioners seemed to not discriminate - the corpses were a mix of male and female, young and old alike. The signs marking each of the condemned were all one word - "LOOTER" was prevalent first, followed by "HOARDER." It was two marked this way that stirred the strongest reaction.

On opposite sides of the road, a boy and a girl, neither more than eleven or twelve years of age, hung like the rest. They were both thin, ill-clothed, and dirty. Their eyes were open, slightly bugged out, staring blindly at each other. Their tongues were slightly protruding from their mouths. Jack could see that each one had been hung using a stainless steel dog choke collar, now cut deeply into their necks. Both the boy and the girl had expressions of horror on their faces.

"Oh my God," Boggs murmurs, staring up at the bodies. "Those inhuman bastards. Jack, those dog collars wouldn't kill them quickly - these kids slowly strangled to death, watching each other die!"

Jack nods, not trusting himself to speak. Behind him he could someone - maybe more than one - vomiting. Jack swallows heavily, willing himself not to throw up.

"Let's keep moving," Jack finally orders brusquely - sure that the worst was behind them.

He was wrong.

Rounding a bend in the road, the travelers see that the hangings have stopped - in favor of crucifixions. Bodies nailed to the utility pole cross members, spikes driven through their hands, their arms, their feet and lower legs - congealed puddles of blood under each body mixing with the rain, mud and sleet. The signs on these bodies were different - "THIEF," "DEVIANT," and "DRUG ADDICT."

There weren't as many crucified bodies as there were hung, but there were enough. Jack slowly felt the horror, fear and revulsion that he had felt earlier replaced by another emotion - anger. A burning, white hot anger at the human animals that did this. He was so consumed by this feeling that he suddenly realized that Brad was speaking to him.

"What? Sorry, Brad," Jack says.

"I said, it looks that that one is the last of them," Brad says, pointing to a crucified girl in her early twenties, hanging limply from a utility pole. Jack glanced at her sign - "FORNICATOR."  _Oh my God_ , he says to himself,  _Condemned to death for having sex!_

"Okay," Jack says, stopping just past the girl to pull out his map. "Let's see, the turn off should be right up ahead -"

"Please."

"Huh?" Jack says, looking up from the map. He looks at the assembled group with a frown. "Who said that?"

His gaze is greeted by looks of confusion from the others, as everyone looks at each other, the same question on their faces.

"Please," the voice croaks again. Slowly, Jack realizes with horror that the voice is coming from  _above_  them. His head tilts up sharply and he gasps audibly as he sees the crucified girl staring straight down at him.

"Please," she pleads again through cracked and bleeding lips.

"Oh, my God," Danielle Cartwright says in horror, "She's still  _alive_!"

"We have to get her down!" Blair Malarkey says urgently.

"No," Boggs says quietly. He turns to Jack. "She's more dead than alive. We could do nothing for her. She's not asking us to save her - she's asking us to put her out of her misery."

Jack listens to Boggs, then turns back to the girl. He pulls one of Nevaeh's arrows from its quiver and holds it up.

"Is this what you want?" Jack asks gently.

The girl stares down at him and slowly nods once. "Yes," she manages to whisper.

Jack turns back to Nevaeh and hands her the arrow. "You know what to do," he says quietly. Nevaeh nods wordlessly, taking the arrow and carefully nocking it to her bow. Jack turns back once more towards the girl hanging from the utility pole.

"I'm so sorry," he says, feeling tears forming in his eyes.

"Don't be," the girl manages to croak out. She sees Nevaeh standing ready. "Thank you," she says and closes her eyes. Nevaeh swallows heavily, then, in one smooth motion, pulls the arrow back, aims, and shoots.

The arrow sinks deeply into the girls chest. The girl jerks once, quivers, and falls limply forward. Jack looks up into her face and sees a small smile etched on her lips. He then turns back to his companions.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he says. "And if anyone -  _anyone_  - around here so much as looks at us wrong -" Jack pulls his rifle out of the makeshift sheath on his bike "- we shoot to kill. Understand?" He glares at each of his fellow travelers as he mounts his bike.

"No mercy. Not for these animals."


	18. CONFRONTATIONS

**CHAPTER 18 - CONFRONTATIONS**

**COUNTY ROAD 13200 - EAST OF PARIS, TEXAS - NEAR U.S. HIGHWAY 82 - EARLY OCTOBER, 2070**

"Let her go," Jack Hawthorne says in a calm, even voice. The stock of the lever action hunting rifle is nestled snugly against his shoulder as he sights down the barrel. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and he swallows heavily, trying to control his breathing.

"You're in no position to make demands, friend," the tall, gaunt man standing fifteen meters to Jack's front says calmly. He's dressed entirely in black, to include the floppy brimmed hat he was wearing.

Nevaeh Abernathy is on her knees in the roadway, hands bound roughly behind her. Another man, dressed in a flannel shirt, overalls, and boots, with a grease stained baseball cap on his head, is standing directly behind the girl, holding a loop of wire around her neck. The hair on the left side of her head is matted with blood and there's a bloody streak across the left side of her face as well. Jack risks a glance at her eyes and sees them burning with fury.  _Don't do anything stupid, Nev,_  he says to himself.

"Look," Jack says, trying to sound calm and reasonable. "We're just passing through. We don't want any trouble -"

"You interfered with justice!" The man in black booms out. "You had no right - NO RIGHT! No right to interfere with that little whore's just punishment!"

"They have people on all sides, Jack," Henry Mitchell, standing immediately behind Jack, says under his breath. "Standoff. This is a lose-lose situation for everyone."

Jack grunts and nods slightly. Damn Nevaeh anyway! She knows the rules! If you're riding point, you  _always_  stay in sight of the main body! Jack could see her bike, laying off to one side. The front wheel appears bent.

"We did nothing wrong," Jack says. He can feel his hands becoming slick with sweat in spite of the chill air.

Another man steps forward, brandishing a bloody arrow in his hand. "Then explain this!" He barks. "Identical to others this bitch -" he kicks Nevaeh in the side cruelly, smiling at her grunt of pain "- has in her quiver!"

Behind him, Jack hears a moan of frustration, immediately followed by Boggs saying, "Steady, PJ."

"Listen," Jack says, "Okay. It's our arrow. But we were doing the humane thing in putting that girl out of her misery."

"You condemned her to damnation!" The man in black thunders. "Her pain was her penance! Only through divine pain would she achieve salvation in the eyes of our Lord! You robbed her of that!"

"Religious fanatics," someone behind Jack mutters.  _This is rapidly going south_ , Jack says to himself,  _and I have absolutely no idea how I'm gonna get everyone out of this without our own people getting hurt - or worse!_

"I - we didn't know," Jack stammers, frantically trying to think of something -  _anything_  - to buy some time and get he and his fellow travelers out of this mess.

"God doesn't want her pain, friend," Boggs' voice suddenly booms out from behind Jack. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees Boggs step forward slowly, lowering his shotgun as he did so.

"The Jezebel was fornicating," the man in black practically snarls. "Her only salvation was to endure the pain of the cross, like our Savior!"

**"** From the Book of Revelations - 'And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.'" Boggs quotes. "This doesn't sound like a God that seeks pain, friend."  _Good, Boggsy,_  Jack says to himself,  _Keep quoting scripture - keep them off-balance._

"It's not!" A new voice cries stridently from behind Jack. Jack sees the group holding Nevaeh falter a bit and quickly shoot glances at one another, murmuring softly to each other. Jack risks a quick look over his shoulder at the source of the new voice.

A skinny, middle aged woman, work-worn with a face lined by too many days in the sun, stands flanked by the group directly behind the travelers. A man stands on each side of the woman, holding her arms firmly.

"Pauline Harris?" The man in black peers past the travelers at the woman. "Woman, you need to get on home. This is none of your affair."

" _You_  made it my affair, Jordy King, when you nailed Sarah Beth to that power pole!" The woman cries out. She suddenly wrenches herself free from the men who had been holding her arms rather loosely. They move to immediately grab her again, but the man in black that the woman had called Jordy King puts his hand up to stop them.

"Boggsy - keep an eye on our six," Jack murmurs softly. "I don't want any more surprises - and I don't want PJ doing something stupid."

"Got it, Jack," Boggs replies, sidling around until he's facing in the direction that they had come from. He glances quickly at PJ Abernathy and sees the young man nervously clutching his rifle, alternating his gaze between the locals immediately behind them to his sister, kneeling on the worn asphalt to their front.

The woman - Pauline Harris, Jordy King had called her - stumbles forward, the bottom of the long raincoat she was wearing flapping loosely against her shins. Wordlessly she shuffles through the travelers, now massed on the road anxiously eyeing the locals to their flanks and rear. As she passes Jack he can hear her muttering softly to herself.  _That must have been her daughter,_  Jack says to himself.

"And what about this one, Jordy?" The woman asks, pointing a gnarly finger at Nevaeh, still kneeling on the roadway. "You planning on tacking her up too?"

"Pauline, I told you that this is none of your concern," Jordy King says. "What happens to her is up to the Tribunal, you know that."

"The  _Tribunal_!" Pauline laughs mirthlessly. "Oh, Jordy King, that's a good one!" She stops suddenly in front of the group holding Nevaeh when one of the men levels his shotgun at her chest and growls, "Close enough, woman!"

"Thank you, child," Pauline says to Nevaeh, who simply gazes up at the strange woman before nodding her head up and down, once. "You showed far more compassion than these 'Men of God' ever did."

"Pauline, I'm giving you latitude because of Sarah Beth," Jordy snaps. "But be warned, woman - you can push my patience only so far!"

"Mister King," Jack begins, forcing himself to sound far calmer than he felt, "We're just passing through here, and as such, ignorant of your customs and laws. If you -"

"'Reverend' King," Jordy roars. "Not 'Mister!' Of the Paris Free Evangelical Church!"

"'Reverend?'" Pauline laughs. "Four months ago you were a part-time janitor at the high school! Sarah Beth felt  _sorry_  for you! Always asked me to pack an extra lunch so she could give it to you!" The woman's shoulders suddenly convulse in a sob. "And how do you repay her kindness? You filthy  _murderer_!"

"That's it!" Jordy snarls. "Woman, just remember, you've brought this on your own head." The self-styled reverend turns to a group of men standing behind him and points to two of them.

"You - and you. Take Missus Harris into custody for appearance at the Tribunal." He nudges Nevaeh with his foot. "This little bitch, too. I've got something special in mind for her. A nice little display out on Eighty-Two that will be sure to 'discourage' outsiders from interfering in our business!"

"NO!" PJ Abernathy yells out as he spins and lunges forward. Several pairs of hands grab him, preventing him from moving any further up the road. Jack feels PJ slam into him from behind and stumbles, lowering his rifle as he fights to keep his balance. At the same time, the two men step forward, raising their hands to grab Pauline Harris. She steps back, her back to the travelers as she allows the front of her rain coat to swing open. She pulls her hands from her coat pockets and raises them to her chest.

"You're through terrorizing people around here, Jordy King!" Pauline says loudly. The two men that had been moving forward to grab her stop dead in their tracks, their eyes wide with surprise - and fear - matching the expression on Jordy King's face.

"Pauline, don't! Stop!" Jordy shouts, raising his hands up in front of him. He's clutching a pistol in a two-hand grip and swings the weapon towards Pauline Harris.

"I'm so sorry, child," Pauline says, speaking to Nevaeh, who - like the others - was staring in wide-eyed horror at the woman. Jack struggles to raise his own rifle again as he feels PJ bump into him again from behind. All around him are shouts of alarm and the sounds of weapons being cocked and bolts being worked.  _Not quick enough,_ Jack says to himself,  _I can't stop any of this! Shit!_  But neither Jack nor his fellow travelers could have predicted what happened in the next moments.

"Burn in hell, Jordy!" Pauline Harris cries out, as her right arm jerks away from her chest.

And Pauline Harris explodes.

* * *

Jack's eyes snap open and, for a moment, he stares blankly at the iron-gray sky overhead. He's dimly aware of muffled, unintelligible shouts and dull popping sounds. He tries to raise his head and is rewarded by a stab of blinding pain. Jack lets out an involuntary moan that seems to echo inside his head. Carefully, he experimentally wiggles his hands and feet, feeling relief flood over him when he realizes that he can move his extremities.

A face looms suddenly in his field of vision - a dark face, shiny with sweat - even on this cold day - and peppered with red spots. Jack's muddied brain dully connects the face to a name. Boggs. It's Boggs. But what's all over his face?

_Jack!_  Jack sees Boggs move his lips and form his name, although all he hears is something that sounds faint, like it's coming from far away.  _Jack. Don't. Move._

Jack tries to nod but the effort is too great. Boggs disappears from his field of vision, and, for the next few minutes, Jack sees flashes of people appear and disappear from his view. He closes his eyes for a moment as another wave of pain passes through his head. He strains to hear but everything sounds so muffled, so far away.

Jack's eyes pop open again as he feels several pairs of hands grab him and lift him gently into the air. Another muffled groan escapes his lips as he's carried for a few seconds, then carefully manhandled onto something cold and unyielding. Again he squeezes his eyes shut, even as he tries to adjust his pain-wracked body to the hard surface that he's been placed on.

A short while later, Jack feels the surface under him suddenly vibrate, then feels his whole body lurch. He opens his eyes and looks up, feeling his aching head rocking gently from side to side. The sky over his head appears to move, and dimly Jack is aware that he's been placed in an open vehicle of some sort. For an instant he's gripped with fear, until he manages to turn his head and sees Boggs and someone else - Jackson, he realizes - kneeling over someone else laid out next to Jack.

_Who's that? Who's hurt?_ Jack squints and tries to focus his eyes, but his throbbing head forces him to abandon the effort. Clumsily he tries to push himself up, feeling his head swim with the movement, until a pair of hands on his shoulders forces him gently, but firmly, back down.

Boggs appears over him again, studying Jack's face with a look of concern. Boggs raises his head and Jack can see him talking quickly to someone, but all he can hear are muffled, distorted sounds. Boggs looks down at Jack again and Jack can see that he's holding something in his hand.

_Just. Lie. Still. Jack._  Boggs carefully enunciates each word, then presses the object in his hand to the side of Jack's neck. Jack feels a brief sting, then nothing at all as his eyes flutter shut and an unnatural calm overtakes his mind.

* * *

Jack's eyes flutter open. He's aware of a persistent, unpleasant ringing in his ears, but realizes that the sounds around him are clearer now, and no longer seem muffled. His eyes focus slowly on what appear to be exposed timber beams and a timber ceiling. He carefully moves his arms and legs a little bit, wincing slightly at the various small, sharp pains that each movement brings.

"Hey," a soft voice says, and the face of Blair Malarkey swims into view. "You're awake. Can you hear me? How do you feel?"

"What - what happened?" Jack manages to croak out.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Jack. Here." Blair pulls out a water bottle with a straw attachment and guides the straw to Jack's mouth. Jack pulls on the straw, carefully taking a few swallows of cool water, swishing the last mouthful around his dry mouth before swallowing.

"Better?" Blair asks.

"Yeah," Jack replies, his voice sounding less rusty. "And yeah, I can hear you."

"Good. Hang on for a minute, Jack." Blair raises her head and calls out, "Morgan. Tom. Henry. He's awake."

"Blair." Jack says quietly. "Are you gonna tell me what happened?"

Blair glances down at Jack thoughtfully for a moment, then says, "It's better if Morgan and the others answer that."

Jack feels the surface under him shift a little and glances to the side. He realizes for the first time that he's laying in the open bed of a truck. A new face appears overhead, examining him carefully.

"Boggsy." Jack says. "What the hell happened?"

"First things first, Jack," Boggs replies. "I think you have a concussion, but I don't think you have a skull fracture, and you're still able to move your extremities. I checked your neck and back as well as I could but I don't think you have any spinal damage either. Blair said you can hear, so that's a positive note. Do you think you're up to moving out of this truck?"

"Yeah," Jack answers after a moment.

"Okay," Boggs says, then turns around. "Tom, Henry, Blair. We're gonna move Jack out of the truck. Easy now." The foursome gently but firmly help Jack sit up, then work to slide him out of the back of the truck. Jack wavers a bit when he stands, fighting a wave of dizziness, then steadies and looks around.

Jack and the others are standing in what appears to Jack to be a barn. Another truck is parked next to the one Jack had been in. Both vehicles appeared to be farm trucks of some sort - larger than pickups, with long, open beds. Jack can see bicycles tied down to the sides and front of both trucks, and realizes that the bike trailers are stowed in the beds of both trucks as well.

"This way, Jack," Boggs says, as he and the others carefully help Jack shuffle across the concrete floor to a folding chair. Boggs guides Jack into the chair, then takes a seat next to him, using a wooden chest for a seat.

"Where's everyone else?" Jack says, looking around. "And where the hell did these trucks come from?"

Boggs regards his friend gravely for a moment before responding. "Frank, Dave, PJ, and the Cartwrights are outside. On watch and - doing other things. The trucks are courtesy of those religious fanatics from Paris, Texas. They - don't need them any more."

Jack closes his eyes briefly as he processes what Boggs has just told him. "Boggsy - you didn't account for everyone." Jack finally says.

"No," Boggs says quietly. "I didn't. Jack, what do you remember?"

Before Jack can respond, Henry Mitchell walks up with a pair of cups. "Thought you both could use this. Soup's kinda thin, but it's hot." Henry hands Jack and Boggs a cup to their murmured thanks.

Jack inhales the aroma of the soup before taking a careful sip. Some sort of meat and unidentifiable vegetables. He swallows gratefully and takes another sip before speaking.

"So what do you remember, Jack?" Boggs gently asks again.

"Those - maniacs on the road," Jack replies after a moment. "They had Nevaeh. And that woman - must have been that girl's mother - and...an explosion..."

"Yes," Boggs says, nodding. "The woman was wired, Jack. A suicide bomber. I have no idea how she knew where to find that self-styled 'Reverend' and his cronies. For that matter, I have no idea how they knew where to find us!"

"Locals," Jack says tiredly. "That whole area was probably scared shitless of this guy. They either informed on us out of fear or they were followers of his. I guess it doesn't matter any more."

"I guess it doesn't," Boggs says softly, nodding.

"When I was laying in the truck, I saw you and Tom kneeling over someone else," Jack says. "Who was it?"

"Elise," Boggs says after a moment. "Elise Orr. She was shot. Chest and abdomen. There wasn't anything I could do, Jack. I'm sorry."

Jack leans back and closes his eyes, remembering. Remembering the bright, serious grad student that he had taken on as an intern. The pretty girl that was so insecure about her own appearance. The girl that allowed a keen sense of humor to surface - once you got to know her. Dead.

"Anyone else?" Jack forces himself to ask.

"One more." Boggs hesitates for a moment before continuing. "Nevaeh. She was - she was three meters from the explosion, Jack. There wasn't - much left."

"PJ," Jack mutters softly. It had become common knowledge that PJ and Elise had been spending quite a bit of time together. Jack remembers thinking how romance blossoms in the strangest places, under the most difficult of circumstances. And his sister - a girl that he had been closer to him than anyone else on Earth.

"He's not taking it very well," Boggs says. "Thank God I'm a shrink. At least I can have a decent chance of treating him - if he wants it, that is."

"How many injured?" Jack asks.

"Aside from you - you were the most serious, by the way - Dave Malarkey caught part of a shotgun blast." Boggs replies. "He's got some pellets in his left arm - small, like bird shot. A good thing, too - anything much bigger would have probably caused some serious damage to the muscle. As it is, he's in some pain, and I've got the arm bandaged up. I don't know what we're gonna do it if gets infected. I can't dig them out without anesthetic."

"Anyone else?" Jack asks.

"Frank Donner has some bruised ribs," Boggs replies. "It was freakish. The woman - Pauline Harris? - her head hit Frank square in his side. Like it was shot out of a cannon or something. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it." Boggs suddenly stops and buries his face in his hands. "Jesus Christ, Jack," he sobs out. "Her fucking  _head_!"

Jack says nothing, but instead reaches over and puts his hand on Boggs' shoulder as the other man sobs quietly into his hands. After a few moments, Boggs raises his head, wiping his eyes clumsily on his worn and stained shirt, and takes a deep, shaky breath.

"Sorry," he says quietly. Jack shrugs and gives Boggs a small smile.

"Forget it," Jack says gently. "So the other fanatics didn't put up a fight?"

"Not much of one," Boggs replies. "PJ was the first to start shooting. Everyone was in shock for a few seconds, but not him. You and Frank were down, PJ was shooting, then it seemed that everyone was blazing away. It was confusing as hell, Jack - we thought you were dead, at first - being the closest to that Harris woman."

Boggs pauses and slowly sips his cup of soup. "Pretty good soup," he says, then, "PJ was shooting at the group to our rear. I think between him and the Cartwrights they got all of them. The ones on the flanks fired a few shots at us, but they seemed more intent on getting the hell out of there than staying and fighting with us. That's where Elise and Dave got shot." Boggs pauses again, looking down at the floor for a moment, his hands trembling slightly.

"And the trucks?" Jack asks.

"They were parked a little ways ahead of us, around a bend in the road," Boggs replies. "After the shooting stopped, we - the ones that were able, anyway - searched the area. Wanted to make sure that there weren't any more surprises. Henry and Tom found the trucks. We were panicked - wanted to get the hell out of there right then. Blair Malarkey was the one that reminded us that we needed to take the bikes along. Thank God these were big trucks - but even so, we barely had enough room for everything."

"Where are we now, Boggsy?" Jack asks.

"Just off Interstate Thirty, East of Texarkana, Texas. We're actually in Arkansas now." Boggs replies. "We had to stop. Both trucks are low on fuel, we haven't been able to find any way to get more hydrogen, and we've been told that the Interstate Bridge over the Red River is out. We're in a truck barn owned by a couple called the Turners. They were the ones that told us about the bridge being out. So, we made them a trade - a night in their barn for these two trucks."

Jack sips thoughtfully at the remains of the soup. "Pretty lucky that we could get our hands on these trucks," Jack says after a moment.

"They were a Godsend," Boggs says sincerely. "We would have been up shit creek without a paddle if it weren't for these trucks, what with you and Elise down, not to mention Dave and Frank being hurt."

"And we weren't followed?" Jack asks.

"Not that we could tell," Boggs says, draining the last of his soup.

Before Jack could respond, the door to the barn swings open, and Brad and Danielle Cartwright, accompanied by PJ Abernathy, slip through the door. Jack can see that the Cartwrights are carrying shovels and PJ has a pick mattock in his hands. All three are splattered with mud.

"Finished?" Boggs asks.

"All done." Brad Cartwright says quietly.

"Go see Henry." Boggs says. "He's got some soup warmed up."

"Okay," Brad says. "Hey, Jack. Glad to see you up. Feeling better?"

"Aside from a killer headache and my ears constantly ringing, yes, thanks, Brad," Jack replies.

"Good," Brad says, then turns to his wife and mutters quietly to her. She nods and takes Brad's shovel, then turns and takes the pick from PJ's hands.

PJ turns and stares balefully at Jack. Jack returns the younger man's gaze steadily. PJ steps forward, walking slowly towards Jack and Boggs. Jack stands up shakily.

"PJ," Jack begins, "I just want to say -"

"Save it," PJ says in a flat voice. "I don't wanna hear it, Hawthorne."

"PJ -" Jack begins again.

"They're both dead, Hawthorne," PJ says tonelessly. "Because of you - and your interference. If we'd just left that girl to die on her own we would never have been stopped - and my sister would still be alive - and I wouldn't have just finished shoveling dirt on Elise."

Jack looks stricken, his horror-filled eyes locked with PJ's.  _He really blames me for what happened,_  Jack says to himself,  _and he just helped bury Elise_!

"PJ, you know that's not true," Boggs says gently. "Every one of us - you and your sister included - would have made the same decision. Ending that poor girl's suffering was the only compassionate decision that any of us could have made."

PJ stares at Jack for a moment longer before replying. "Maybe so, Boggsy, but  _he_  was the one that made it." PJ turns and strides away before either Jack or Boggs could reply.

Boggs lays his hand gently on Jack's arm, guiding Jack back down to his seat. "I'm sorry, Jack," Boggs says. "He's wrong, and, unless I miss my guess, he'll realize it very soon. Right now he's angry - and looking to take it out on someone."

"I don't blame him, Boggsy," Jack says. "But what if he's right?"

**THE TURNER FARM - NORTH-EAST OF TEXARKANA, TEXAS - EARLY OCTOBER, 2070**

"Thanks for your help, folks - and your hospitality," Jack says as he shakes hands with the Turners. The Turners were of indeterminate age - anywhere between forty and sixty - work-worn and weather beaten. This had been Jack's first meeting with them - they had kept to themselves up until this morning, when they had surprised the travelers with morning coffee and toasted bread.

"It's been our pleasure, Mister Hawthorne," Mister Turner replies. "And remember what we said - the ferry is working near the site of the old U.S. Sixty-Seven Bridge. Give the ferry operator this -" he hands Jack a folded piece of paper "- and he should charge you a reasonable price to get you across the Red River. He's a cousin - and he knows it'll get back to me if he tries to screw you over."

"And don't worry about that little girl's grave, either," Missus Turner says. "We'll keep it well tended. She'll rest easy, I promise you."

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. When he opens them he manages a choked, "Thank you."

"Godspeed to you all," Mister Turner says. "And a safe journey."

"Let's mount up," Jack says, quickly wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve. "Frank, you set the pace. Brad, can you take point?"

"I'll take point," PJ says abruptly. Jack regards the young man thoughtfully for a moment before replying.

"Okay, PJ has point. We're taking Mandeville Road to the Ferry Crossing, and -"

"I know the route," PJ snaps, mounting his bike and starting to pedal away. "Let's get going. We're burning daylight."

"Let it go, Jack," Boggs says quietly. Jack nods without speaking, and starts to slowly pedal his own bike, watching Frank and Dave Malarkey carefully. As the travelers pull onto the road, Jack looks back one final time to wave at the Turners before concentrating on the road ahead of him.

_Maybe he's right,_ Jack says to himself, as he painfully settles into his pedaling routine.  _Maybe they are dead because of me._

**RAIDERS SAFE HOUSE - STRATMOOR HILLS, COLORADO - MID-OCTOBER, 2070**

"He's here, Rain," the young woman announces to the red-bearded man sitting quietly in front of the fire roaring in the fireplace.

"Good. Send him in." The young woman nods and disappears, reappearing momentarily with a bearded, somewhat bedraggled young man, dressed in worn work clothes, his dark hair already showing signs of premature graying.

"Have a seat, soldier," Rain Wallace says, swiveling his chair around to greet his guest. He indicates an overstuffed leather chair next to a curtained window.

"Drink?" Wallace asks, picking up an expensive liquor decanter. "Bourbon, Scotch, Vodka, Gin, Tequila - what's you pleasure?"

"Whatever you're having," the young man replies. Wallace grins and pours two drinks into small crystal glasses. Standing up, he hands one glass to his visitor, who's still standing near the overstuffed chair.

"To our continued cooperation," Wallace says, touching his glass lightly to that of his visitor.

The young man says nothing, but tosses the bourbon down in a single gulp, feeling the liquor spread warmth through his chilled body. Setting the empty glass down, he allows himself to sink into the proffered chair. After a moment, Wallace returns to his own chair.

"So, what do you have for me?" Wallace asks.

The young man pulls a sheaf of paper from his shirt pocket and hands it to Wallace. "Vehicle positions, bunkers, observation posts, listening posts - even mortar pits, artillery emplacements, and command bunkers."

Wallace carefully examines the hand-drawn sketches with glee. "And these are accurate?"

"As of three days ago," the visitor replies.

Wallace leans back in his chair, placing the papers on an end table to his right. "I have to hand it to you, Snow, you've got some major balls. I've got my share of deserters, but so far, you're the only one willing to go back inside the wire to get me the intel I need."

"I'm taking a huge risk, too, 'Reverend,'" Richard Snow replies. "If I'm caught, I'm dead where I stand. No trial, no 'due process.' These are field troops - they'll shoot me on the spot."

"Well, then, it's easy," Wallace replies. "Don't get caught. And you can forget that 'Reverend' shit in here."

"Easier said than done," Snow says. "Even though I'm working on the other side of the perimeter. I'm supposed to be part of the labor force hauling garbage - do you know how hard it is to make sketches and pace off distances when people are watching your every move? That simple little set of maps that I just gave you took  _weeks_  to put together!"

"And you'll be rewarded," Wallace says, " _Once_  we've managed to accomplish our goal of shutting down this joke of a government. Of course, there are some that tell me not to trust you."

"I hope so," Snow says darkly. "And, I would have thought me showing up with a load of ammo would have shown me to be sincere and trustworthy."

"That, my friend," Wallace replies, "Got you in the front door.  _This_  -" he indicates the maps "- will get you set for life in the new order -  _if_ the intel is accurate. We'll make that determination two nights from tonight - when we attack."

"I already told you, it's current as of three days ago. And, I still don't see what good breaching the perimeter will do," Snow remarks. "There's thousands of troops guarding the Zone. I don't think that they'll just put their weapons down and swear loyalty to you."

"You let me worry about that, Snow," Wallace says. "I have a plan. And it  _will_  work. You've done your job, Soldier - you've shown me a way in. And I plan to reward you for that, once the job is done. In the meantime, you can stay here tonight, as my guest. We have food, drink, a warm bed for you - even female companionship. Just a little taste of my eventual generosity."

"I'm living in a labor camp, Wallace," Snow replies. "If I don't get back by curfew tonight I'll have to answer to some, shall we say, uncomfortable questions. I don't want to arouse suspicion - so I think it's best that I head on back."

"You know you'll have to be hooded again," Wallace says. "No offense - but if you don't know where this house is, and you  _are_  caught -"

"I can't spill what I don't know," Snow finishes. "Yeah, I'm aware of that. Still, I don't want to raise any eyebrows. It's been difficult enough as it is to hide who I am anyway."

"Point taken," Wallace says. "When would you like to head back?"

"It's getting late," Snow says. "But, I understand you have a real working toilet here?"

Wallace laughs. "Indeed we do. Courtesy of well water and a septic tank. Sorry, no hot running water, though - otherwise I'd offer you a shower and a chance to clean those filthy clothes of yours."

"I can't remember the last time I was able to crap into anything other than a hole in the ground. The toilet will be fine, thanks," Snow says, standing up.

Wallace taps a bell on the end table. In seconds, the same young woman that had escorted Snow through the house appears.

"Take Mister Snow, here, to the restroom, please. Then bring him back here. And let transport know that they will be taking him back to the labor camp." Wallace orders.

"Of course, Rain," the young woman says, then, "Mister Snow - follow me, please."

Richard Snow follows the young woman down a hallway. "First door on the right. If I'm not here when you're done, please wait for me. Don't get caught wandering around the house alone."

"Thanks, I won't." Snow says as he enters the bathroom. A single candle flickered in the gloom.

Richard Snow lowers his pants and settles carefully onto the toilet. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax.  _At least I wasn't lying about the toilet_ , he says to himself.  _It really has been forever._

When Rain Wallace had his lackeys pick Richard Snow up earlier that afternoon, they had taken extraordinary precautions. They knew that there was a hefty price on their bosses head. So, in addition to hooding him so he couldn't see either the route that they took or the house that was their final destination, they also conducted a very thorough search of Richard Snow - including his body cavities. They were efficient and quite thorough.

Just not thorough enough.

Snow grunts with the exertion of his efforts to defecate.  _Come on, come on_ , he says to himself as he pushes again - and again - and yet again. Finally, he feels his clenched buttocks relax and hears a soft plopping noise beneath him.

Tearing off a length of toilet paper, he cleans himself quickly, then kneels beside the bowl, takes a deep breath, and reaches in. His fingers close around something warm and soft and for a moment he's grateful for the low lighting. He squeezes the mass gently, working the waste through his fingers until - yes! There it is! A hard cylinder. He quickly wipes as much of the clinging feces from the foreign object and peers into the toilet.

Snow holds a small metal cylinder, about the size of his middle finger. He swishes it in the toilet water for a moment, then grasps it firmly and twists. After twisting the cylinder a half turn, he feels a small button pop out of one end. He quickly depresses the button and is immediately rewarded with the soft flash of a small red light at the other end.

Snow quickly drops the cylinder back into the toilet, stands up, and flushes. He watches carefully as the cylinder disappears under the swirling water, then carefully washes his hands and pulls his pants back up. He unlocks the bathroom door and steps into the hallway, immediately encountering his escort.

The girl glances at him with a smile. "Good timing," she says. "I just returned from transport. How do you feel?"

Snow smiles as the girl escorts him back to Rain Wallace. "Never better," he replies.

**LABOR CAMP SIX - JUST OUTSIDE THE CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - MID OCTOBER, 2070**

Richard Snow walks through the main checkpoint and heads toward his quarters. He had been dropped off on the road about a kilometer from the camp checkpoint, his hood removed and admonished to count to one hundred before looking behind him. Snow dutifully counted to one hundred, slowly, before walking off toward the camp. He never once looked back.

Snow pulled the flap of the tent back and entered. His quarters were identical to those of any other contract laborer - cramped and filthy, but reasonably dry and even warm at night. But, instead of his tent-mates, he's greeted by a pair of Air Force Security Police wearing patches identifying them as being assigned to Cheyenne Mountain Security.

"Come with us, please, Mister Snow," the larger of the two says. Snow simply nods and falls in between the two uniformed men.

They walk quickly through the camp to a waiting vehicle. The smaller of the two Security Police opens the rear door and indicates that Snow climb in, while the larger of the two climbs behind the wheel of the vehicle and starts it up. Snow settles in as the other Airman climbs into the passenger side of the vehicle. The driver turns around and addresses the other rear passenger for the first time.

"The Zone, Major?" he asks.

"Yes, Sergeant. The Mountain. Level Seven." Major Susanna Snow replies, then turns to the other passenger as the vehicle pulls away.

"Well?" she asks.

"It's done," Snow replies.

"Any trouble?" Major Snow asks. Richard Snow shakes his head.

"None, ma'am," he replies respectfully.

"Good," Major Snow says, then, "Ricky - you did good. Real good."

"Thanks, sis," he answers wearily. "Just don't ask me to do something like this again."

"It was necessary, you know that," she chides her brother gently. "Still, I know what kind of a risk that you took. I'm proud of you, little brother - you've really grown up!"

Suddenly Major Snow leans over and wraps her younger brother in an undecidedly unmilitary hug. After a moment Richard awkwardly returns his sister's embrace.

"What about my unit?" Snow asks as his sister gently disengages herself. "I mean, they probably think I deserted again."

"You're officially listed as Missing in Action," Susanna replies. "Don't worry - we'll let them know that we've recovered you and that you're working inside the Mountain now."

They ride in silence for a few more minutes until they approach the entrance to Cheyenne Mountain. Richard turns to his sister, concern on his face.

"Susanna - please let Sergeant Wise know personally that I didn't walk away," he says, a pleading note in his voice. "I - it's important that she knows I was working for you. I took a huge risk, after all - I could've been shot by my own people that night, and damn near did get shot by those crazy-fuck Raiders!"

"Ricky - don't worry." Susanna looks at her younger brother fondly. "You're working inside, now - no one can get to you. I doubt if they'll put two and two together, anyway. For all anyone knows, you got arrested tonight. And I will personally escort Sergeant Wise to see you so she can see for herself that you didn't desert."

"Level Seven, Major," the driver calls out.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Susanna says as she opens her door. "Come on, Ricky - you have debriefing with Detective Sergeant Christopher and I - then I promise a shower, clean clothes, and a decent meal."

Richard Snow exits the vehicle and falls in beside his sister. As they walk, Susanna speaks quickly into a communicuff that she's wearing.

"This is Major Snow," she says. "Code Alpha Foxtrot Six Zero Two. Launch Operation Flyswatter. I say again, launch Operation Flyswatter."

As they enter a briefing room, Susanna turns back to her brother. "What about the maps you gave them?" she asks.

"Useless," Richard Snow replies. "In fact, worse than useless. Even if Rain Wallace was able to get those to his field troops, if they try to use them to plan an attack they'll run straight into the strongest, most heavily defended sectors on the perimeter. They'll be cut to ribbons."

Susanna squeezes her brother's arm. "You did so good, Ricky!"

**RAIDERS SAFE HOUSE - STRATMOOR HILLS, COLORADO - MID-OCTOBER, 2070 - EARLY EVENING**

"You hear that?" The man looks up from the map he was studying, alarmed.

"It's just a hoverplane. Relax," Rain Wallace says. "They overfly here constantly. No one knows we're here. Now, let's focus, gentlemen, shall we? I want this attack to really hurt those fuckers at Cheyenne Mountain."

* * *

Overhead, a lone hoverplane lazily orbits over a residential area of Stratmoor Hills, Colorado. The pilot intently examines his heads-up display before turning to the man seated next to him.

"Target confirmed and acquired, Mister Flickerman," the pilot says calmly. "Good lock and tone. We can put them right down the pipe with minimal collateral damage."

Stu Flickerman spins around in his seat at the man seated in the seat normally reserved for the flight engineer. "How about it, Elliott? Ready to engage?"

Elliott Heavensbee's eyes narrow briefly. "We have confirmation that he's there?"

"Target is confirmed in the residence," the pilot says.

"Let's do it," Elliott says.

The pilot turns back and says to Stu, "Sir, you have it while I arm and deploy the weapons."

Stu rests his hands lightly on the flight controls. "I've got it," he says.

"Egg one, arming sequence complete. Egg two, arming sequence complete. Egg three, arming sequence complete." The pilot says, then, "All three locked on the residence. Deploy?"

Stu glances back at Elliott, who nods grimly. "Deploy, Captain," Stu says.

"Bombs away," the pilot says calmly, pressing the bomb trigger while watching the heads up display.

* * *

"What the hell is  _that?_ " A shout from the one of the assembled Raiders breaks into Rain Wallace's thoughts, even as he hears the high-pitched whistling sound that gets louder with every passing second. The realization of what was about to happen hits Rain suddenly, and he has time to voice one final thought.

"That little fucker."

The three bombs strike the roof of the safe house virtually simultaneously, penetrating through the roof, the attic ceiling, and the second floor before striking the ground floor and detonating. By chance, one bomb actually penetrates into the very room where Rain Wallace was pouring over his maps of the security perimeter.

The bombs did their job well. Designed to inflict a minimum of collateral damage, the blasts are directed downward, resulting in almost no flying debris and a minimal shockwave. The most damage inflicted on nearby homes consists of cracked windows and shaken residents.

Of the occupants of the safe house, there wasn't enough left to scrape together to bury.

 


	19. WINTERING OVER

**CHAPTER 19 - WINTERING OVER**

**RED RIVER FERRY - U.S. HIGHWAY 67 - EARLY OCTOBER, 2070**

Jack Hawthorne stands with his back to the wind, shoulders hunched against the biting cold wind. He painfully flexes his gloved fingers, then reluctantly pulls his right glove off, digging quickly into a jacket pocket with his bare fingers. His fingers close on a small cylinder, which he pulls out of the pocket. He fumbles with the cylinder for a moment, pulling off one capped end. Jack quickly smears the chap stick over his cracked lips, resisting the urge to lick them.

"About another hour for the ferry," Henry Mitchell says tiredly. Jack glances at his friend.  _He really looks old_ , Jack says to himself.

"Thanks, Henry," Jack replies. He quickly drops the chap stick back into his jacket pocket and pulls his glove back on. "What's the damage?"

"Not too bad," Henry replies. "Some ammo, some food. Nothing we couldn't spare."

Jack nods, looking out across the river. The ferry was making its slow way back to the West bank, where the travelers, along with others - locals, mostly, from their dress and accents - were waiting to cross to the East bank.

"We're at the end of our rope, Henry," Jack says suddenly. "It's getting colder every day. Snow flurries, sleet, freezing rain - if it snows and covers the roads, we're fucked. We can't pedal through snow. We'll be forced to walk."

"This is a tough bunch, Jack," Henry says. "They'll want to keep going." Jack glances at his friend again. He shakes his head sadly.

"We're gonna need to turn North soon," Jack points out. He pulls out a well-worn map and carefully unfolds it. "Look. We're here, where Sixty-Seven crosses the Red River." Jack points at the map. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Morgan Boggs walking up to join them.

"It took us two days to go from Texarkana to here." Jack says. "Two days! That's not even forty kilometers! And if we stay on Interstate Thirty it's gonna be a couple of weeks before we hit Little Rock at that pace!"

"Little Rock?" A voice says. Jack, Henry, and Boggs turn toward the source of the voice - a wizened man of about seventy, bent over slightly from the weight of a backpack on his back, clutching a long walking stick.

"You folks headin' t' Little Rock?" The man asks.

"Just passing through," Jack replies. "We're actually heading North. Kentucky, Pennsylvania, New York and the New England states."

"You'll wanna get off Thirty, then," the old man says. "And stay away from Benton!"

"Why?" Henry asks with a smile. "What's in Benton?"

"Cannibals," the old man says matter-of-factly.

"Say again?" Henry says, his smile fading.

"You heard me right, sonny," the old man says. "But they don't eat their own, from what I hear. Just strangers passin' through."

"Holy shit," Henry mutters, glancing at Jack and Boggs.

"What do you think, Boggsy?" Jack asks.

"About the old man?" Boggs asks quietly. Jack nods. "I don't think he's lying. Still, maybe we should ask the ferry operator if he's heard anything."

"Just what I was thinking," Jack says, glancing at his map again, then letting out a sigh. "Okay, just in case - if we have to get off Thirty, we should do it here, where Two Seventy intersects Thirty. That'll take us to...let's see...Pine Bluff. That's the next major river crossing - the Arkansas."

"What's up?" Frank Donner says as he joins the trio.

"Possible detour," Henry says glumly.

"Shit. Okay, boys, fill me in." Donner says, pulling his jacket hood over his head.

* * *

The gentle rocking of the ferry was almost hypnotic. In spite of the cold and damp, Jack felt his eyes grow heavy. He watches as the ferrymen pull steadily on the rope, propelling the large, flat bottomed barge slowly across the river.

Jack shivers as a fresh snow flurry blows across the ferry, peppering his face with dozens of icy shards.  _We need to find someplace to winter over_ , he says to himself.  _I just hope that there's a spring at the end of this so we can keep moving._

"Jack." Jack turns and sees Dave Malarkey, along with his wife, Blair, walking up to him.

"Hey, guys," Jack says tiredly. "What's up?

"We're wondering the same about you, Jack," Blair says gently.

"Me?" Jack says with a bitter laugh. "I'm fine!"

"No, Jack," Blair says. "You're not. Ever since - you know."

"Ever since what?" Jack says, his voice rising. "Ever since I got Nevaeh and Elise killed? Is that what you're tryin' to get at?"

"We didn't say that, Jack," Dave says.

"No?" Jack says, an edge to his voice. "Well, it sure as fuck sounded like it!"

"No, Jack," Blair says gently. " _We_  didn't say it. But  _you_  keep saying it."

"What?" Jack asks incredulously. "I don't -"

"Yes, Jack." Blair continues. "Look, Dave and I can't say we know all of what you've gone through out here - hell, we've missed more than half of it - but what happened back there - with Nev and Elise - and with you, Dave, and Frank as well - that was - no,  _listen to me_  - that was  _not your fault_! But you've been beating yourself up about it ever since we left Texarkana!"

"PJ sure as hell thinks it's my fault," Jack says bitterly.

"And the rest of us think you made the right call," Dave says reasonably. "Look, Jack, I've still got shotgun pellets in my arm. It still hurts when Frank takes a deep breath. Do you see either of us blaming you? No! And you wanna know why?"

"Why?" Jack mutters, staring down at the choppy river.

"Because on July Fourth of this year, the world as we knew it came to an end - and we were left with this dangerous, murderous, shit-hole that none of us recognize," Blair says firmly. "And when we all set out on this trip, we  _all_  knew that it would be dangerous. Every one of us! And that includes Nevaeh and Elise."

Jack sighs heavily.  _Maybe they're right_ , Jack says to himself - then catches a glimpse of PJ Abernathy glaring at him.

"Ignore him, Jack," Dave says. "Stay focused. We've come a hell of a long way. We're not giving up and we're not letting  _you_  give up."

"Easier said than done," Jack mutters. "Listen, guys, I've been thinking. We can't keep going with winter coming. We need to find someplace to winter over. There's no way we can travel once the snows really hit."

"Sounds good," Dave says.  _Now_ that _sounds like the old Jack_ , he says to himself. "Where do you have in mind?"

"I'm not sure," Jack says slowly. "Shit, that reminds me. I gotta talk to the ferrymen about this business of cannibals in Benton."

"Already did," Henry says, walking up with Boggs. "He confirmed it. Rumors been coming out of that area for a month. Captain says he's spoken to folks that've made it through that area. Seems they saw it with their own eyes."

"That - that's barbaric!" Blair Malarkey says. "For the love of God!  _Cannibalism?_ Why doesn't the government do something?"

"The government?" Jack says, laughing humorlessly. "Blair, look around. See any cops? Soldiers? No? Neither do I. The population centers - remember the briefing we got a while back? Places like Omaha, Nebraska, and the Springs, and Las Vegas, Nevada, and, if memory serves, the Little Rock/Pine Bluff area -  _those_  are the only places that have any semblance of law and order! Out here in the boonies - well, we've all seen the shit that goes on out here. Local militias stealing and killing travelers, religious fanatics hanging and crucifying people, fucking  _cannibals_ , for Christ's sake!"

Jack pauses and looks around, suddenly realizing that the rest of their group - including PJ Abernathy - was now gathered around him while he spoke.

"Once the government gets  _their_  shit together - which will be anytime between now and, oh, say, a hundred years from now -  _then_  maybe you'll see them send in troops, or cops, or whatever, to restore law and order." Jack says emphatically. "But until that day comes, this -" he pulls out his pistol, then returns it to its holster "- this, is law and order on the road."

Jack falls silent, staring at the faces surrounding him. Suddenly a lone voice speaks up from the crowd.

"Now,  _that's_  the Jack we all know and love!" Brad Cartwright says with a grin.

* * *

"Okay, guys," Jack says, once they assembled after disembarking from the ferry, "Lets try to make it to Hope before dark. It's about twenty-five kilometers, so we're gonna have to push ourselves a little."

Muffled groans as the travelers mount their bikes. Jack stiffens a little when he sees PJ approaching him.

"I'll take point," PJ says simply. Jack nods.

"Okay. You got it." Jack replies, looking PJ in the eye. After a moment PJ looks away, mounting his bike. He looks back at Jack, who twirls his index finger in the air, then points down the road. PJ nods, turns around, and starts to pedal.

Jack watches PJ for a few seconds, then mounts his own bike and starts to pedal. Almost immediately, he can feel his leg muscles, stiff from the cold, protesting.

_Twenty-five clicks. Shit._

**HEADQUARTERS, COMBINED LAW ENFORCEMENT OPERATIONS - PINE BLUFF, ARKANSAS - MID-OCTOBER, 2070**

_Crack!_

In spite of himself, Lucas O'dair can feel himself jump as the whip slashes across the man's back. The man -  _man, hell, he's no more than sixteen!_  Lucas says to himself - jerks as the whip rips a bloody line across his back. Still, he manages to bite back his cry of pain - almost.

"Two!" The deputy sheriff that's been appointed to count the number of lashes sings out.

_Two? That was only two? How the hell am I supposed to get through five?_  Lucas says to himself.

The whistling of the whip is followed by yet another sharp  _crack!_  This time, the boy lets out a loud sob and slumps forward.

"Three!"

Another whistle. Another  _crack!_  Another cry of pain. "Four!"

Lucas glances around at the small crowd that assembled to watch the administration of what had been officially announced as "judicially sanctioned corporal punishment," the accused having been found guilty of the crime of theft of non-replaceable consumables, to wit: canned foodstuffs and disposable propane containers, and had been sentenced to five lashes, sentence to be executed immediately.

The crowd was mostly silent, except for the boy's mother -  _at least I think that's the mother_ , Lucas says to himself, crying out with every stroke of the lash and continually spitting out a stream of profanity towards Lucas, Colonel Taylor Howard, and Judge Crockett. Both Howard and Crockett were standing impassively, watching the flogging without displaying any outward reaction.

_Crack!_ "Five!"

"That's it," Lucas says immediately, stepping forward. "Unshackle the prisoner. Release him from custody." A pair of deputies step forward, quickly unshackling the sobbing boy as the boy's mother rushes forward, turning her stream of invective towards the pair of deputies as she and another woman lead the boy away. The drops of his blood on the thin coating of snow stand out in sharp contrast to the pristine whiteness. Lucas finds himself tracing the trail of blood with his eyes as the boy stumbles home, supported by the woman on each side of him.

"You two. My chambers. Now." Judge Crockett orders, pointing at Lucas and Colonel Howard. The old judge stalks off toward the Jefferson County Courthouse without waiting to see if they were following. Lucas glances at Howard once, shrugs his shoulders, and trots off to catch up to the judge, with Colonel Howard right behind.

Once in Judge Crockett's chambers, the old jurist ushers them both into his private office and shuts the door firmly behind them. The judge quickly seats himself behind his desk, points to a pair of chairs in front of his desk, and quickly lights an oil lamp sitting on the corner of the desk.

"Sit." Both Lucas and Taylor Howard sit in the proffered chairs without a word. Once the lamp is lit, Judge Crockett opens the bottom drawer of his desk, extracting a large, brown bottle and three glasses. He carefully pours two fingers of whisky in each glass, handing two of the glasses to Lucas and Taylor Howard. He then carefully replaces the bottle in the drawer, then raises his glass in a toast.

"To keeping the peace in Pine Bluff," he says, briefly touching his glass to the glasses of the pair seated across from him. All three down their whisky in a single gulp, placing the empty glasses on the desk.

"That," Judge Crockett says, "Was the first. And it won't be the last. Colonel -" the old judge pronounces it as 'Cunnel' "- I have to say that I was reluctant to implement your idea at first, but I have to say, I think that corporal punishment for minor offenses will have a much greater deterrent than lockup ever did."

"Thank you, your honor," Taylor Howard says quietly.

"No, thank  _you_ , young lady," Judge Crockett says. "Did you see the faces? Those folks were horrified. Sickened. Lashes make an impression on more than the one that's whipped, that's for sure. And it costs us nothing."

"It made an impression on me, that's for sure," Lucas says quietly.

"I bet it did," the judge says, chuckling. "Luke, I've known your family for years. Watched you grow up. You're tough - as tough as they come. I remember the fight you and your boys got into with those punks down by the public docks, right before Impact. You killed then without batting an eye. We've hung people, right out there -" the judge points out his window towards the Courthouse Square "- and you didn't bat an eye then either. Do you know why whipping bothers you?"

Lucas sits quietly.  _Why does it bother me so much?_

"Today, you could hear that boy cry, and scream, and beg us to stop. And that was only five lashes. The sound of the whip cutting through the air, the  _crack_  as it lays open his back, your deputy counting out each lash - the sound, that's what bothers you. And if it bothered you, it bothered everyone else there." The judge sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin as he looks at the two people responsible for maintaining law and order in the greater Pine Bluff area.

"You know what we did today?" The judge asks. "We spanked a naughty boy in public. Spanked him and sent him home. Oh, sure, his mother was livid - called us every name in the book. But that boy - I've seen him dozens of times in front of the Juvenile Bench. Fighting, stealing, drugs, robbery - you name it, everything short of murder. And each time he would smirk when sentence was handed down, and we slapped him on the wrist. He sure as fuck weren't smirkin' today."

"Your honor, it almost sounds like today was personal for you," Lucas says, a touch of reproach in his voice.

"Not at all, Luke," the judge says. "Although I do admit to a certain - satisfaction - at seeing this particular boy getting spanked for what was probably the first time in his life. No - he just had the bad luck to be first."

"I wish we didn't have to do this," Lucas says.

"So do I, Luke," Judge Crockett says. "But, let's face it - this is a different world. And we have to keep the peace here. It's gonna be tough enough living day to day. Look at today - have you ever seen snow in mid-October?"

Lucas shakes his head. "No."

"This is gonna be a tough winter," the judge says. "And it don't look like the new government will be of much help, at least for the time being. So, we do what we have to do. By the way, did Colorado Springs respond to your message about our use of corporal punishment?"

"Yes, your honor," Lucas replies. "They understand our reasoning - that we don't have the assets to support incarceration as punishment - and endorse 'alternative' methods in keeping the peace and maintaining order."

"Good," Judge Crockett says. "Okay, you two. I'm sure you have other things to do - I know I do. Let's get back to work."

Lucas and Taylor Howard stand and exchange brief goodbyes with the judge, before leaving the courthouse and trudging back across the square to their shared headquarters.

"What do you think?" Lucas asks as they walk.

"I think he made some good points," Taylor Howard says. "Of course, only time will tell if floggings are really a deterrent or not."

"And we sure as hell can't afford to keep people in lock up," Lucas mutters.

As they reach the entrance to their shared headquarters, Lucas notices several battered bicycles lined up outside the main entrance, each with a bicycle trailer attached.

Lucas points to the bicycles. "Wonder what the hell that's all about?"

"No clue," replies Taylor Howard, as she shrugs her shoulders.

Lucas pulls the door open, holding it for Taylor as she slips past him with an exaggerated eye roll -  _I know, I know_ , Lucas says to himself,  _You're a soldier, not a lady! Well, old habits die hard!_  - and following Taylor into the building. Inside the main lobby, they both see several people huddled together, their clothing obviously travel-stained but otherwise in good repair.

"Sheriff?" Lucas turns as a young deputy approaches. He's wearing street clothes and is indistinguishable from any other local - except for the white armband that he's wearing around his left arm.

"Yes?"  _What the hell was this kids' name?_

"Umm...there's some people in your office that would like to talk to you," the deputy says. "They're part of this group here." The deputy indicates the group in the lobby.

"Okay. Thanks," Lucas says with a smile. "Guess we're about to find out the story on all those bikes." He says to Taylor as they stride down the hallway to his office.

Lucas grasps the door handle and pushes the door open. Inside his office, he sees three men rise to their feet and turn to face him and Taylor Howard. Lucas and Taylor step into the office, Lucas shutting the door behind them.

"Gentlemen, I was told you wanted to speak with me?" Lucas asks. One of the men, with dark, almost black hair, and a full black beard, steps forward, hand outstretched.

"Sheriff O'Dair?" The man says, as Lucas clasps his hand in his own. "I'm Jack Hawthorne. And yes, I do need to speak with you."

* * *

_Why does that name sound familiar?_  Lucas asks himself as he shakes the man's hand. "What can I do for you, Mister Hawthorne?"

"First things first," Jack says, stepping back. "Two associates of mine. Henry Mitchell and Tom Jackson."

"Gentlemen," Lucas says, shaking hands. "And this is Colonel Taylor Howard, United States Army, commanding officer, Pine Bluff Detachment."

"Colonel," the three strangers say, shaking Taylor's hand in turn.

"Please sit down," Lucas says, gesturing towards chairs and a leather covered sofa. As the trio sits, Lucas asks, "So where are you coming from?"

"Pretty obvious that we're not from around here, huh?" Jack replies.

"Well, those bikes out front are pretty much a dead giveaway," Lucas says with a smile.

"You're right, of course, Sheriff," Jack says. "We've come from - out West."

"And I'm assumin' that Pine Bluff is  _not_  your final destination?" Lucas asks.

"No," Jack replies. "We're - headed North. Trying to reunite with our families."

"Separated by the Impacts?" Taylor Howard asks, examining the trio closely.

"Something like that," Jack replies.

"This is not a good time of year to be traveling," Taylor says. "Weather's turning nasty. And I'm sure it'll be worse the further North you travel."

"Well, the weather was much more - cooperative - when we set out in August," Jack explains.

"I'm sure it's even worse now in Colorado Springs than it is here," Taylor says with a small smile. She sees all three men stiffen at the mention of Colorado Springs, and glances over at Lucas, who was looking at her in surprise.

"It took me a while," she says. "The last time I saw any of you was in February. None of you had beards then - and I can see that you've all lost weight. But the voices are the same."

"I'm afraid you have us at a disadvantage, Colonel," Jack says warily.

"Until the end of February I was assigned to the Pentagon," Taylor says. "Specifically, I was on staff with the U.S. Army Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations. I was fortunate enough to attend a couple of briefings that you gave to President York. I was reassigned effective One March to command the Forty-Sixth Heavy Brigade, which is part of the Pine Bluff Detachment."

"Taylor, you've met these men before?" Lucas asks in confusion.

"Indeed I have, Luke," she says with a smile. "May I present Doctor Jack Hawthorne, of the PAN-STARRS Observatory in Hawaii - the astronomer that discovered Comet Shiva; Doctor Henry Mitchell, Director of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California, and Doctor Thomas Jackson, Presidential Science Advisor to President Janice York."

* * *

For a moment, Lucas stared across his desk at the three men seated before him. These three, among others, had been plastered all over the media for months following the discoveries of Comet Shiva and the killer asteroid Mjolnir.  _I knew there was something familiar about these guys!_

"And President Alexander Cray as well," Tom Jackson says wryly.

"And, for the record,  _I_  didn't discover Shiva/Mjolnir," Jack adds. "One of my grad students did. I merely confirmed the discovery."

"Gents, I admit I'm a bit confused," Lucas says. "From everything that I've been given to understand, Colorado Springs and the Cheyenne Mountain Complex was probably the safest, most secure place on the North American continent! Would you care to explain  _why_  the hell you'd leave voluntarily?"

"Sheriff, first of all, I want to apologize for our evasiveness," Jack says. "But you'd be surprised at how many people 'blame' us for the Impacts. We've found that it's a lot easier if people don't know who we really are."

"Understandable," Lucas says. "But that doesn't answer  _my_  question, which is - why did you all leave?"

"Almost all of us have family back East," Jack says. "My wife and son are in Pennsylvania, Henry's family is in Vermont, and Tom is from Upstate New York. Our job was to advise the government on issues related to comet and asteroid impacts and the after-effects. We basically found ourselves out of a job a few weeks after July Fourth."

"I see," Lucas says thoughtfully.

"That's not all," Henry Mitchell says, looking at both Lucas and Taylor as he spoke. "Things in Cheyenne Mountain were changing. It just didn't feel right for any of us to stay. So we got out while they would still  _let_  us out."

"Changing?" Lucas asks, shooting a glance at Taylor as he did so. "In what way?"

"It's hard to put a finger on it," Tom Jackson pipes up. "But the government was getting more - secretive. More and more, even with as much of the Federal government as could be relocated there, it seemed that a select few were making the decisions and calling the shots. None of us felt comfortable about staying."

Lucas sits back in his chair, looking thoughtfully at the three men, before turning to Taylor.

"I think we should show them," he says simply.

Taylor nods slowly. "I think you're right." She suddenly rises from her chair. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I'll be right back."

"Gents, we're gonna share something with you, and Colonel Howard and I would like your honest opinion," Lucas says as Taylor leaves the room. "Her office is next to mine. She should be back in - right now," he finishes as Taylor re-enters the room with a file folder. The front of the folder is stamped "SECRET" in large red letters.

"We received these messages a couple of weeks ago," Taylor says, handing the two teletypes to the trio seated before them. "Take a look at them and let us know what you think."

Jack, Tom and Henry quickly scan through both messages, their eyes widening as they read. Finally, Jack gathers up both messages and hands them back to Taylor.

"These pretty much confirm our suspicions," Jack says. "Both Cray and Thread are completely out of the loop. Cray has a terminal illness - amyotrophic lateral sclerosis and frontotemporal dementia. And Thread is an alcoholic and is addicted to prescription pain medication. We got word when we were in Norman, Oklahoma, picking up two other members of our group. That's when we heard about this 'Governance Committee' and this so-called 'Capitol Council.'"

"So Cray's dying, huh?" Lucas says. "And Thread's incapacitated. Well, that explains a lot."

"Yeah, it does," Taylor says thoughtfully. "Cheyenne Mountain is trying to project to the rest of the country that they're still in control - but it's pretty obvious that they're not much more than a paper tiger."

"So, Doctor Hawthorne," Lucas says, turning his attention back to the trio. "Like I said when we first met - what can I do for you?"

"You saw that we're on bikes," Jack says. Lucas nods. "Well, with the weather turning bad, we'll need someplace to winter over. Originally we were gonna try to make it to Little Rock, but we detoured down here after we heard about the cannibals in Benton."

Lucas shoots Taylor a look. "You've heard of them too?"

"Yeah," Jack replies. "From other travelers and from the ferrymen when we crossed the Red River."

"Luke, we don't have the manpower to investigate something like that," Taylor says.

"I know, I know," Lucas says disgustedly. "Maybe next Spring." He turns his attention back to the trio.

"I assume you're looking for someplace to winter over." Lucas says. It's not a question.

"Yeah," Jack replies. "At least until Spring."

"If there  _is_  a Spring," Henry mutters darkly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lucas asks.

"It's a theory that some of us have been looking at," Jack explains, shooting Henry a dirty look. "Basically, the changed weather patterns and all the dust thrown up into the atmosphere have had a cooling effect on the Earth."

"Yeah," Taylor says sardonically. "We've noticed."

"Well," Jack continues, "There is a  _possibility_  - and I stress that as much as I can - that we may not see normal changes of weather associated with the change of seasons."

"Is there anything we can do about it?" Lucas asks.

"We've noticed greenhouses when we came into town," Jack says. "That will be a big help. I assume that, with the river, a lot of fish are harvested?"

"Yeah," Lucas replies. "You'll find that you will be sick of fish very quickly."

"Does that mean that we can stay?" Jack asks hopefully.

Lucas glances at Taylor before responding. "You can stay," he says finally. "I usually don't get involved with refugees, but you all are a special case. We're gonna put you to work, though. No free rides."

"No problem," Jack says.

"And, Doctor Hawthorne, expect Colonel Howard and I to spend a lot of time picking your brains. We wanna know what the hell's happening in the rest of the country." Lucas says.

"Deal," Jack says, standing up. He offers his hand to Lucas. "And it's Jack. And this is Henry and Tom."

"Lucas, or Luke," Lucas says, shaking each man's hand.

"Taylor," Colonel Howard says. "A pleasure to make your re-acquaintance." The trio shake Taylor's hand as well.

"Okay," Lucas says, ushering them out of the office, "Let's go find billeting for you and your friends. We'll worry about jobs tomorrow. By the way, we've instituted corporal punishment here. Gave a boy five lashes this morning for theft. I hope you aren't squeamish."

"Remind me to tell you about some of the horrors we've already seen on our trip," Jack says with a laugh. Psychotic militias, crucifixions, and suicide bombers - the last thing Jack Hawthorne was going to get upset about was someone getting whipped.

"By the way, Lucas, how's your communications with the outside world?" Jack asks.

"Spotty," Lucas replies. "But we can normally reach whoever we are trying to get in touch with. Why?"

"I was just wondering," Jack says carefully, "If I could possibly get a short message out."

**THE EVERDEEN RESIDENCE - BETHEL PARK, PENNSYLVANIA - LATE OCTOBER, 2070**

"Paul!" Charlotte Everdeen says, as Chief of Police Paul Undersee enters the house, first stamping the snow off his boots. "What on earth are you doing out in this weather?"

"Hello, Charlotte," Paul says cordially. He reaches into an inner pocket and pulls out an envelope. "I have a message from Pine Bluff, Arkansas - for Victoria."

"Victoria?" Charlotte says. "I had no idea she knew anyone in Arkansas!"

"Is she available?" Paul asks patiently.

"Oh! Yes. Sorry, Paul. Come with me into the kitchen. I'll get you some tea." Charlotte quickly walks into the kitchen, calling out for Victoria Hawthorne as she walked. Paul follows her close behind.

"Have a seat, Paul," Charlotte says, pouring him a hot cup of tea. "Victoria!"

"Coming!" Victoria's voice answers from outside. A moment later the back door opens and Victoria walks inside, her arms laden with firewood.

"I swear, we go through a lot of wood and - oh, hello, Paul!" Victoria Hawthorne sets down an armful of wood and brushes the snow out of her hair.

Paul stands up. "Victoria," he says, extending the envelope to her. "A message for you. Personal, from Pine Bluff, Arkansas."

"Pine Bluff?" Victoria says quizzically. She takes the envelope from Paul and carefully tears it open. Both Charlotte and Paul notice that her hands are shaking ever so slightly.

Victoria extracts a single sheet of paper from the envelope and unfolds it. Her eyes widen as she reads, and a single tear escapes each eye to roll down her cold-reddened face.

"Vickie? What is it, honey?" Charlotte asks, concern in her voice. Victoria looks up, a smile on her face, then clears her throat.

"I'll read it," she says in a shaky voice. "'Honey. Stopping in Pine Bluff AR for the winter. Sheriff allowing me one quick message. Not sure when I can send another. I'm alive. Love you and Vic so much. Jack.'"

Paul smiles as she reads.  _Good news for a change,_  he says to himself.

Charlotte envelopes her friend in a hug. "Oh, honey. That's  _wonderful!_ "

"You're alive," Victoria whispers as she stares at the paper. "You're alive."


	20. IMPACT WINTER

**CHAPTER 20 - IMPACT WINTER**

_The world as we knew it ended on July Fourth, in the year Two Thousand Seventy Anno Domini._

_The initial effects of the myriad impacts scattered over the Northern Hemisphere were immediate and devastating. Massive Mega-Tsunamis, generated from ocean impacts (as well as one in North America's Great Lakes), devastated coastlines and coastal cities all over the Earth, in many cases reaching for hundreds of kilometers inland. Billions were killed world-wide, simultaneously drowned and crushed by walls of water hundreds of meters in height._

_Land impacts punched gaping holes in the Earth, sending out blast waves of pressure and heat that proved to be fatal for a radius of hundreds of kilometers from each cosmic ground zero. Smaller "air-bursters" detonated high up in the atmosphere. Many of these exploded over sparsely populated areas. A few, like the Denver air-burster, exploded some fifteen kilometers over the Mile-High City with the force of a nuclear bomb, devastating the city below with a lethal one-two punch of blast overpressure and thermal pulse. The few dazed survivors quickly abandoned the ruined city, leaving a smoldering ghost town behind._

_The impacts triggered another phenomenon - massive hurricanes, typhoons, and cyclones spinning out of each ocean (or lake) impact crater. These massive storms battered the ruined coastlines for weeks after the impacts. And even areas of the planet that were spared hurricanes did not escape the torrential rain that started mere hours after the last chunk of comet struck the Earth._

_The rains came, and it rained...and rained...and rained some more. The rains fell for weeks, washing out roads and bridges, causing reservoirs to overflow. Dams were undermined and failed, causing massive flooding and more deaths. Pockets of survivors found themselves becoming more and more isolated._

_But all of the impacts, whether at sea or on land, shared one common trait. One common bond. The most destructive effect of the impacts was the one that was virtually invisible to the battered and shell-shocked survivors._

_Dust._

_Billions of tons of dust, blasted high into the stratosphere by the impacts. This dust, combining with even more billions of tons of water vapor created by the ocean impacts, ended up circling the Earth, blocking the rays of the sun. Gradually, the Earth cooled._

_The cooling, which was anticipated by astronomers, meteorologists, and other scientists (all of whom issued warnings of long term effects), was scarcely noticed at first. The shattered remnants of national governments worldwide were simply looking for ways to feed, house, clothe, and protect their citizens in the wake of more immediate and pressing disasters. The dust did its work. Slowly, gradually, global temperatures began to fall._

_Even as the incessant rains began to taper off, and even as the sun began to make brief appearances for the first time in weeks following the impacts, the air was noticeably cooler. Places in the Northern Hemisphere that would normally be enjoying late summer warmth were instead faced with early morning frosts. The muddy ground, saturated by weeks of rain, would freeze solid every night, only to reluctantly thaw during the light of day._

_The Southern Hemisphere, already in winters grip on Impact Day, found itself spared the hurricanes that pounded the North. Instead, the cold increased. Cities south of the equator that were spared destruction by tsunami found themselves in the icy grip of the coldest winter in recorded history. The snows fell in the lowlands of South Africa, Australia, and South America. Lake Victoria, the traditional source of the fabled Nile River, freezes - a thin layer of ice coating its surface._

_The Earth's ecosystem is fragile. Rapid heating or cooling of any of the myriad climates worldwide will have catastrophic results. And one of the most immediate results is crop failure. Rice, wheat, corn, potatoes - crop failure knows no international boundary, nor does it respect the division of hemispheres. And, where there is crop failure, starvation is soon to follow._

_The surviving governments of Europe, Africa, the Middle East, Scandinavia, Asia, Oceania, and South America, already reeling from the devastation caused by the Impacts and their aftermath, collapsed completely as Impact Winter settled over the Earth. Food riots became commonplace everywhere as billions of starving survivors fought vicious civil wars over meager stockpiles of rice, potatoes and grains. Worldwide, infrastructure broke down. Anarchy was the new most common form of government._

_Starving survivors quickly tore through whatever stockpiles of food remaining after the initial devastation wrought by the Impacts. Once the stockpiles were gone, they turned to eating whatever they could get their hands on - dogs, cats, rats, mice, and eventually, in extreme cases - each other._

_Of course, there were pockets of humanity scattered all over the Earth that retained at least the outward appearance of civilization. Small communities that had made serious preparations for the Impacts also made serious preparations to defend what they had. But these weren't central governments. Rather, they were small isolated islands of survival more often than not surrounded by a sea of death._

_Only in one place on Planet Earth was there some semblance of central government, of some attempt to salvage civilization out of the worst catastrophe known to mankind. In North America, the remains of the United States Government worked tirelessly in a continuous effort to maintain some sort of control over the rest of the battered country. Although the government could not offer much more than inspiring words and advice to the areas that had survived the Impacts and were still functioning, a constant stream of communication poured forth from the new seat of government in Colorado Springs to a dozen or so beleaguered municipalities that were still attempting to maintain their own control over their own small areas._

_What was left of the United States Government was hardly recognizable. The office of President was vacant - the elected President, Janice York, had perished on Impact Day. The Vice President, Alexander Cray, had reluctantly been sworn in on July Fourth - but had to step down due to a debilitating, and ultimately fatal, illness. His Vice President, Randall Thread, was unable to assume the office of President due to a long time secret addiction to pain medication and alcohol. It was the most significant constitutional crisis that the United States had been faced with in decades - and the interim solution was to form a Governance Committee, aided by a Capitol Council, to wear all three hats of the government - becoming a temporary combination of the Executive, Legislative, and Judicial branches. The committee and council members knew that this system could not last - that the office of President would have to be filled. But despite the difficulties inherent in such a set up, the committee, with the aid of the council, was able to accomplish three important tasks:_

_One. Keeping lines of communication open with the baker's dozen of municipalities that were still viable._

_Two. Maintaining control in the Colorado Springs area of operations._

_Three. Establishing and maintaining communications with the remnants of the governments of Canada and Mexico._

_Still, in spite of the only real working government left in the world, starvation was still rampant. And it only worsened the deeper the Northern Hemisphere was plunged into Impact Winter._

_In those few municipalities that survived the initial catastrophes, every effort was made to provide enough food to last through the extended winter. Greenhouses were built whenever materials could be found to construct them. People hunted, and fished, and trapped whatever they could. Local authorities practiced wholesale confiscation of food and other consumables, re-distributing to their citizens based on whatever value scale that community used. In many cases, those that were able bodied received more rations than those that had some sort of disability. Skilled craftsmen such as carpenters, farmers, plumbers, masons, hunters, fishermen and ranchers were valued for their skills and knowledge. Doctors, dentists, nurses, and medical technicians were similarly valued. Soldiers and police were valued for their abilities to protect their communities and maintain law and order._

_But, for all their efforts, every community knew that there simply would not be enough food to feed everyone through the long, dark days of the Impact Winter. Starvation was inevitable. And so, local leaders were faced with making brutal decisions._

_Mont-Laurier, Quebec, referred to it a "Triage." Bethel Park, Pennsylvania called it "The Choosing." Duluth, Minnesota had "The Reaping." In Spokane, Washington, it was called "The Lottery" - although there was no random chance involved. There were other names as well - but in the end they all meant the same thing. Some would be chosen to live - others would die._

_It wasn't just food that was rationed. Medical supplies, drugs, antibiotics - if you were deemed useful to your community, you were fed and were medically treated. If you were not deemed useful, your rations were reduced and you were sent home to either beat the illness or injury yourself - or die trying._

_As winter progresses, the tally of the dead grows with each passing day. Most places finally give up digging individual graves. Mass graves become the norm. Before burial, the dead are stripped of everything - no sense in burying perfectly good clothing._

_A new crime is added to law books all across what used to be North America - hoarding. The punishment for those found guilty varied from community to community - death by hanging, banishment, and blanket confiscation of all property formerly belonging to the hoarder were the most common. Additionally, more and more communities began following the lead of Pine Bluff, Arkansas by inflicting corporal punishment for more minor offenses. Whipping posts and stocks began springing up next to the gallows in many of the surviving cities and municipalities as it became more and more impractical to jail or imprison criminals for their crimes._

_The Impact Winter drags on. Body counts continue to rise. Stockpiles of food and other consumables decreases steadily. Survivors continue to cling grimly to life. Everyone was hungry all the time. No one imagined that things could get any worse._

_They were wrong._

_Disease. Epidemics. In the American Southwest and Northern Mexico, bubonic plague cases began to appear - at first isolated, but then with more and more frequency as the plague mutates into pneumonic form. In the beginning it took a bite from an infected flea to transmit the illness - but as the epidemic progressed a cough or sneeze was all it took. Entire villages, towns, and other communities were completely wiped out in a matter of weeks from the first sign of an infected person._

_The American Southeast that survived the Mega-Tsunamis is visited by typhoid and cholera. And, in those parts of North America that were spared the scourges of plague, typhoid, and cholera, various strains of influenza began to appear. The Rocky Mountain Flu, the Great Plains Flu, the Canadian Flu - all viciously attacked immune systems already weakened by malnutrition. Pneumonia caused by the flu killed as many, if not more, than starvation did. Dysentery made numerous appearances in every community._

_The sudden increase in the number of dead poses a whole new set of hygiene problems for the officials in those communities that still manage to maintain some sense of control and order. Even mass graves are hard pressed to keep up with the sheer volume. Finally, in desperation, the central government in the Cheyenne Mountain complex issues a new edict - whenever possible, collect the dead, move them en masse to nearby abandoned towns or villages, and, after stripping the town of everything remotely useful, put the town to the torch._

_The result is massive funeral pyres erupting all over North America. Every village, every small town, that had been abandoned or killed as a result of the epidemics becomes a collection point for the dead. Fires are carefully lit and nurtured to spread, eventually immolating the entire town that had been selected for cremation._

_However, all dark clouds possess a silver lining. Epidemics and pandemics historically have had many comparisons to wildfires, burning through human populations until there was nothing left to consume. Gradually, the plague, typhoid, cholera, dysentery, and influenza epidemics burned themselves out. The survivors, many weakened by the effects of disease, found an unexpected bonus - food._

_Virtually every surviving community was now assured of having sufficient food to survive through this first post-Impact Winter. Food gives them hope. And hope gives them life._

_The Impact Winter had begun, for all intents and purposes, in October. The snows finally began to melt the following May. Although it would be several years for the dust to settle, and for the climates of the world to stabilize, and for the seasons to resume their recognizable cycles once again, the survivors could at least look forward to a precious few months of sunshine and warmer weather before the snows returned. Maybe, with a lot of hard work and a little luck, they would manage to make it through another winter._

_No place was more aware of the urgency in finding solutions to the continuing crisis of feeding a rapidly shrinking - yet significant - population than the new seat of government in the Cheyenne Mountain Complex outside Colorado Springs, Colorado. Deep in the mountain complex, scientists worked throughout the seemingly endless winter, looking for solutions on how to feed those that remained. Through much trial and error, experiment after experiment was developed, nurtured, and inevitably discarded. Their breakthrough came even as the snows began to recede. The teams of biologists, geneticists, and veterinarians had been given a problem, and now they feel that their first solution is at hand._

_They have a plan._


	21. MUTATIONS

**CHAPTER 21 - MUTATIONS**

**CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN GOVERNMENT COMPLEX - GENETICS MODIFICATION LABORATORIES - EARLY MAY, 2071**

"It's a rabbit," Phil Abernathy says, staring down at the caged animal. He ignores the twittering laughter from behind him but he's sure he knows the source.

_It's either the Trinket woman or the Heavensbee woman,_  he says to himself as he examines the rabbit.  _No respect for authority. Damned Prepper anarchists._

"Yes! Yes, it is!" the man standing next to him says. Pleasant faced, glasses always on the verge of sliding down his nose, Doctor Martin Latier fumbles in a pocket of his well-worn lab coat. He extracts a PADD and taps the controls quickly.

"Its stock was originally Oryctolagus Cuniculus. But this one...this one is quite special," Latier explains with a smile.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Abernathy says in confusion, "Oryct...Cunnilingus?" Behind him he can hear guffaws of laughter mixing with the twitters and scowls.

" _Cuniculus_ , Mister Chairman," Latier explains patiently. " _Oryctolagus Cuniculus._  Also known as the common Domestic Rabbit. Although this one is different. Say hello to  _Oryctolagus Cuniculus Latierii_."

"Named it after yourself?" Abernathy asks with a chuckle.

"Why not?" Latier replies with pride. "It's my invention, after all."

"Invention?" Abernathy asks with raised eyebrows. "I wasn't aware that an animal could be invented."

"Engineered, then," Latier says impatiently. "I engineered it."

"So, what makes this rabbit different?" Abernathy asks.

"The Common Domestic Rabbit of the New Zealand White breed, of which this little guy was originally a part of, normally reach sexual maturity at five to six months, has a gestation period of about a month, a litter size of four to six kits, and is ready for slaughter for use as food anywhere from seventy to one hundred eighty days from birth," Latier explains. "However, this little buck is a mutation. A genetically engineered mutation. He reached sexual maturity at two months. The does' gestation period is only two weeks. The litter size is still four to six, but their accelerated growth means that they're ready for slaughter much faster - depending on how the meat is to be prepared, birth to dinner table is now anywhere from just over three weeks to a maximum of two months."

"So, you've managed to speed up their metabolism by a factor of three?" Paul Cresta asks, peering at the rabbit.

"Not their metabolism per se," Latier says proudly. "More along the lines of their maturation and growth rate. And we've run exhaustive tests on the meat. It's perfectly safe for human consumption. These aren't animals treated with hormones or injected with genetically altered material. These are animals that  _breed_  this way."

"This has merit, Mister Chairman," Dan Crane, former Presidential Chief of Staff, says. "This last winter was incredibly harsh with starvation and disease running rampant. If we can get some sort of transportation infrastructure going before next winter I think we'll do a lot better with the starvation problem."

As the two men talk, a lab technician walks in, carrying a cage that the assembled group can see contains a fair number of rats. He stops at the rabbit cage and carefully opens the top door, warily eyeing the rabbit inside the cage.

"Uhh, gentlemen," Latier says nervously, "You may want to step back from the cage."

"Why?" Abernathy asks. "And what's the rat for?"

"It, uhh," Latier stammers, "That is to say, the  _Latierii_ had some, shall we say,  _unforeseen_ side mutations, and -"

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Paul Cresta mutters in shock. "Look at its  _teeth!_ "

Phil Abernathy and Dan Crane glance back at the cage just as a horrified gasp rises up from the crowd assembled behind them...just in time to see the mutant rabbit back up against the rear of the cage, its body quivering with anticipation as its mouth yawns open...revealing not only the anticipated rodent-like incisors, but sharp, fang-like canine teeth and an additional set of sharp incisors as well.

Both Abernathy and Crane involuntarily step back as the technician dips one gloved hand into the rat cage, quickly coming up with a wiggling, squirming rodent. In a smooth, practiced motion the technician drops the rat into the rabbit cage, slamming the top of the cage shut just as the mutant rabbit lunges forward, jaws clamping down on the squealing rat. Blood spurts from the neck of the rat as the rabbit shakes it viciously, then settles down to begin to feed.

Behind him, Phil Abernathy can hear the sounds of someone violently throwing up, and glances quickly to his rear, to see Melody Temple-Smith vomiting into a sink, her husband holding her hair and gently rubbing her back.  _The girl is due any day now,_  Abernathy says to himself,  _why the hell did she come down here?_

In truth, Phil Abernathy was not feeling all that great himself. Swallowing heavily, the Chairman of the Governance Committee turns to Martin Latier, trying, and not succeeding, in keeping the revulsion off of his face.

"I assume, Doctor," Abernathy says dryly, "That we just witnessed one of your so-called  _side_  mutations?"

"I'm afraid so, Mister Chairman," Latier replies quietly. "Earlier versions of  _Latierii_  only had vestigial carnivore canines and incisors. However, they don't require meat more than once or maybe twice a week. They are still largely herbivorous, although I would have to class them more along the lines of omnivores."

"Any other -  _side_  mutations that we ought to know about?" Lieutenant Commander Charles Smith asks pointedly, supporting his very pregnant - and now very wan - wife, Melody, with one arm wrapped protectively about her waist.

"Uhh... _Latierii_  is quite...aggressive," Latier admits. "One of my techs was bitten rather severely a couple of weeks ago, when she didn't observe standard safety protocols."

"I was on duty in the hospital when she was brought in," Melody says accusingly. "So your term for losing two fingers off of her right hand and her right hand shredded to the bone is 'severely bitten?' The wounds were so vicious we thought she's tangled with a fighting dog, or a wild predator!"

"Yes, well, no one's as sorry as I am about that incident," Latier says firmly. "I was given a task to speed up animal growth in select livestock and I did it. These mutations were unexpected and in no way do they affect the quality of the meat!"

"As if I'd eat something like  _that,_ " Elliott Heavensbee mutters to Stu Flickerman.

"Why not, Mister Heavensbee?" Latier asks. "Bears are omnivores and bear meat has been consumed for thousands of years. Shark is considered a delicacy and they're one of the most perfect predators in nature. Ladies and gentlemen, please don't let your pre-conceived notions prejudice you."

"Can't help it," Heavensbee murmurs. "That thing crawled out of my worst nightmares."

Phil Abernathy speaks up before Latier could form an appropriately biting retort. "Doctor, you mentioned a couple of other items you wanted to show us?"

Latier casts a final, baleful glance at Elliott Heavensbee before responding. "Yes, Mister Chairman. I hope that you all find this next item a little less...distasteful. Right this way, please.

* * *

"As you can see, we've been working with chickens as well," Doctor Martin Latier says proudly. "And my team has really made great strides in creating a mutation very similar in growth rate to that of  _Oryctolagus Cuniculus Latierii._ Ladies and gentlemen, meet  _Gallus gallus domesticus_   _Latierii._ "

"Now  _this_  is more like it!" Major General Paul Cresta states firmly.

"Named this one after you as well?" Rear Admiral Quentin Mason asks.

"Well, yes, Admiral," Latier replies. "Of course I did. One of the perks of being the geneticist to successfully breed an entire new species!"

"These birds look quite large," Katharine Heavensbee states. "Much bigger than the birds that we have in the Enclave."

"We used the common Rhode Island Red as our base stock," Latier explains. "And, through genetic manipulation and selective breeding, we were able to produce the birds that you see here. They are significantly larger than the original stock. Roosters can run about ten kilos while hens average out at about seven to eight kilos."

"How quickly do they mature and breed?" Julia Trinket asks.

"We've reduced incubation time down to about one week from the original three," Latier explains. "And, our Reds will reach broiler size in about two to five weeks. If we're using hens for egg production, we can reasonably expect each hen to lay up to nine hundred to nine hundred forty eggs per year. That's about three times the rate for non-mutated Reds."

"Now for the sixty-four dollar question, doctor," Phil Abernathy says. "What surprises do these birds have in store for us? Vampirism, perhaps?"

Latier hesitates for a moment, then turns to one of the lab techs working on a nearby cage. "Go ahead and show them," he says.

The attendant nods, pulls on heavy gloves, and reaches into a nearby cage and extracts a hen. The bird pecks aggressively at the attendants' gloved hands. The attendant, holding the bird tightly, steps away from the cage and tosses the bird into the air. The bird immediately extends its wings, flapping vigorously. But rather than flutter gently to the ground the chicken takes flight, propelling itself through the air. The ungainly avian actually looks graceful as it swoops around the room for several minutes, finally landing on top of another cage, where lab techs quickly corral the bird and force it back into its cage.

"Unmutated chickens have limited flight ability," Latier explains. "For example, a free range chicken can manage to flutter up into a tree, or get enough lift to clear a low fence, for example. But these can actually  _fly,_  as you've all seen here today."

"That's not everything," Bobby Joe Trinket says, examining an enormous rooster in another cage. "Doc, why do these chickens have  _teeth?_ "

"That's easily explained," Latier replies. "During our genetic manipulation, we inadvertently activated a recessive gene - talpid2. This causes tooth formation. In earlier versions of  _G. G. D. Latierii_ , only the embryos developed teeth. However, as our research progressed we found that the adults were retaining these teeth."

"Great," mutters Stu Flickerman. "In the other room we met Wolverabbit, and in here we have Frankenhen, the toothed flying chicken the size of a turkey!"

"Ladies and gentlemen," Latier says in a patient tone, "please remember that my task was to find solutions for starvation, and, side mutations aside, I think I've done that."

"Folks," Phil Abernathy says, turning and facing the group, "Doctor Latier, here, has truly worked wonders. If we can work out ways to get these animals to other parts of the country we just may be able to avoid losses through starvation entirely next winter."

"Once we finish up here I will try to open communications once again with Detroit," Dan Crane adds. "We may see their first train make its way out here very quickly - in as little as a couple of weeks."

"If we can start moving freight we can really make significant strides in rebuilding our country!" Phil Abernathy's voice actually held a tinge of optimism for the first time.

"Mister Chairman," Latier says, "Ladies and gentlemen. I do have one more breakthrough to show you. This one is vegetable rather than animal, so no surprises such as you've seen thus far. Right this way, please."

* * *

The group is standing in a brightly lit room, surrounded by trays suspended from the ceiling by thin chains. In each tray, stalks of what at first glance appear to be wheat sway gently. The plants all appear to be in different stages of growth - everything from mature, ready to harvest wheat, down to bright green shoots a few centimeters high.

"This is what I would like to show you," Latier says, placing a bucket on a table. "Would you care to take a look, Mister Chairman?"

Phil Abernathy steps forward and, urged on by Martin Latier, grabs a handful of mature wheat ears from the bucket.

"Okay, Doctor...it's wheat. So what?" Abernathy says, somewhat impatiently.

"Not just wheat," Latier says proudly. "It's actually  _Triticum Aestivum Tessera._ It's genetically modified bread wheat that uses  _Triticum Aestivum_ stock as its base. Extraordinarily hardy. It will grow virtually under any environmental conditions, and matures incredibly quickly. We've estimated that we can harvest a complete crop every three months. Think about it! Four crops a year!"

"One question, Doctor Latier," Leigh Paylor steps forward, dipping her hand into the bucket and removing a fistful of grain. "I'm assuming that  _Triticum Aestivum_  was the original strain?"

"Yes, indeed, Madam Secretary," Latier replies, nodding.

"What exactly does the word  _Tessera_  mean, then?" Paylor asks, examining the ears of wheat in her hand.

"Good question," Latier says, stepping forward. He pulls a small magnifying glass from a pocket on his lab coat. "See the ears?" He asks, holding the glass over the wheat in Paylor's hand.

"Uh huh," Paylor replies slowly, "but I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for."

"Notice how the grains clump together on the ear," Latier explains. "Rather than the elongated, rather elegant ears of common bread wheat, the grains here form a rather boxy, cube shaped mass. See?"

"Yes," Paylor says. "I can see that now."

"Well, our chief botanist mentioned that the cube shapes reminded her of Tessera - cube shaped tiles that were commonly used in Renaissance mosaics." Latier explains. "I did a little research of my own and had to agree - the description was very apt. So, the word  _Tessera_  was incorporated into my name for this new grain."

"Logical," Paylor mutters, dumping the wheat back into the bucket. "Okay, Doctor, now give us the bad news."

"I'm sorry, Madam Secretary?" Latier says in confusion.

"The bad news," Paylor repeats. "Your genetics lab has developed a strain of wheat that can grow virtually anywhere and matures in three months. There has to be a drawback  _somewhere_."

"Nutrition," a soft feminine voice says from behind them. Leigh Paylor turns to see a slight, somewhat nervous looking, plain-featured woman approaching Martin Latier.

"I beg your pardon?" Paylor says.

"Nutrition. Nutrients." The woman replies.

"Ahh, Gabriella," Latier says with a smile as the woman stops next to him. "Ladies and gentlemen, our chief botanist-slash-bioengineer, Doctor Gabriella Juarez. Gabi, we were just discussing your creation here."

"What did you mean, Doctor Juarez?" Paylor asks. "About nutrition and nutrients?"

"Oh. That." Juarez nervously examines the faces now watching her closely. " _T. Aestivum Tessera_ grows very quickly, as Marty must have told you. But much of the nutrients commonly found in bread wheat grains are somewhat reduced with this mutated strain."

"So it grows quickly but it's useless as a food?" Stu Flickerman asks sharply.

Juarez quickly glances at Stu before replying. "Oh no. It's a versatile grain. It can be milled into flour, boiled and consumed as a cereal, and even used as animal feed. It's just not as nutritious as unmutated bread wheat."

"Define 'not as nutritious,' Doctor," Elliott Heavensbee says in a soft voice.

Juarez glances quickly at Latier, who smiles and nods. "It's okay, Gabi."

In spite of Latier's reassurance, Juarez pauses a moment before replying. "Anywhere from a two thirds to half as nutritious as unmutated bread wheat."

"So if I understand what you're saying, Doctor," Phil Abernathy says quickly, "And putting it into layman's language, it takes one hundred kilos of this mutated wheat to equal the nutrition value of fifty kilos of standard, every day bread wheat?"

"Mister Chairman, if I may," Latier interjects, much to the relief of Gabriella Juarez. "It's true that  _T. Aestivum Tessera_ lacks some of the nutrition of unmutated wheat, but I feel that the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks. Remember, we're talking about a crop that yields four harvests a year and can be grown just about anywhere." Latier pauses and opens a small refrigerator situated behind him. He rummages in it for a moment, then pulls out a platter of sliced bread. The bread was a dark brown in color.

Latier hands the platter to Abernathy. "Mister Chairman, please take a slice and pass it along," he says. "This is bread made from  _T. Aestivum Tessera._ Please try it and tell me what you all think."

In spite of the stated misgivings of several members of the group, Latier notices with satisfaction that everyone takes a slice of the dark bread. Even though no one was even close to starving in Cheyenne Mountain, short rations over the winter had affected everyone, including the highest members of government. In short, everyone was hungry.

Latier and Juarez watch everyone closely as everyone eats their slice of  _Tessera_  bread. Once everyone was done, Latier asks for comments.

"Filling" - "Kinda dense" - "Pretty heavy" - "Tastes like cardboard" - "Sticks to the ribs."

"Doctor Latier," Phil Abernathy says, "Doctor Juarez. I'll be the first to admit that your bread was not the best I've ever had. But your point has been made. If your mutations live up to their promise - in spite of some of their more disturbing 'side' mutations - I'm hopeful that we've seen the last starvation winter."

"Thank you, Mister Chairman," Latier says. "I wish I could report success with some of the larger livestock that we've been working with, but - early results haven't been as promising."

"We'll be in touch again soon," Abernathy says as some members of the group already begin to file out of the lab. "Once we get a reliable transportation infrastructure up and running, we'll be shipping your - creations - to as many cities as possible."

"Gabi and I are just glad that we could be of help," Latier replies with a smile. Gabriella Juarez adds a shy, tentative smile of her own.

Abernathy pats Latier on the shoulder as he turns to leave. "Keep up the good work, Doctors."

* * *

"Agenda items," Dan Crane says as the assembled Governance Committee settles into their seats. "One. Railway infrastructure. Our contacts in Detroit report that a test run between Detroit and Colorado Springs can be attempted in as little as a week. If successful, we can attempt to reach other areas soon after. And, before anyone asks, Detroit's asked that the first shipment of food go to them."

"Fair enough," Phil Abernathy says. "And, in case anyone was wondering, Latier was right. The Wolverabbit was delicious."

There was the expected laughter. "Anyone try the Frankenhen yet?" Rear Admiral Quentin Mason asks with a smile.

"I have," Bobby Joe Trinket says from his seat at the Capitol Council table. "Kinda tough. My free range chickens are better eatin'. But edible."

More laughter. "All right," Dan Crane says as the laughter dies down. "Item Two. Paris, Texas and Benton, Arkansas."

The room suddenly falls quiet as all eyes turn on Phil Abernathy. Shortly before winter had completely settled in a few months back, Cheyenne Mountain had heard from Jack Hawthorne for the first time since he and the rest of his crew had left the comparative safety of the Complex in an attempt to reunite with their families. Everyone had been horrified by his report of the religious fanatics in Paris, Texas, as well as the cannibals in Benton, Arkansas - and the news of their only daughters' death had hit Phil and Carmen Abernathy especially hard.

"Please continue, Dan," Phil says quietly.

"Major Snow has the complete report, Mister Chairman," Dan Crane says, looking over at the Capitol Council table. Although technically not a part of either the Governance Committee or the Capitol Council, Susanna Snow habitually sat at the Capitol Council table and was considered an unofficial member.

"Thank you, Dan," Susanna says, rising to her feet. "Our reconnaissance team was inserted thirty kilometers west of Paris last November - no mean feat considering the horrendous weather conditions. They successfully managed to infiltrate Paris two days later and spent several weeks gathering intelligence before moving on to Benton. What they discovered in both places is chilling, to say the least."

"It's as bad as Hawthorne reported, then?" Abernathy asks.

Susanna's mouth sets in a grim line before she replies. "It's worse." She quickly taps controls on a PADD that she removes from a cargo pocket. A view screen on one wall comes to life. The first image causes a collective gasp from the assembled group.

The picture shows several utility poles, each holding a crucified human. All of the people - men and women alike - were obviously dead and some were showing advanced decomposition. Susanna taps another control and the images begin to play in a slide show format, changing every few seconds. Each photograph was horrifying, showing scene after scene of crucifixions and hangings.

"Our team managed to take a number of photos," Susanna explains as the slide show runs. "And they also confirmed that Paris is still firmly in the grip of religious fanatics. There's only one punishment meted out for any crime committed - death. But, as you will see, this last series of pictures is by far the worst."

The last series shows a single pole erected in what appeared to be a city park, now fallen into disrepair. The pole appeared to be about three meters tall, based on the images of people around it. Wood had been piled up around the base of the pole. As the slide show progresses, the group can see a young woman or girl being led and secured to the pole by chains.

"Oh my God," Katharine Heavensbee says in horror. "They  _aren't_...they  _wouldn't!_

They did.

The next few photos shows flames bursting from the woodpile at the base and quickly consuming the girl lashed to the pole. "Our recon team wasn't able to learn her name," Susanna explains, "Only that she was fourteen years old, and suffered from Tourette Syndrome. The local religious leaders were convinced that she was possessed, or a witch, or both."

"Animals," Paul Cresta mutters savagely. Around him, heads nod in agreement. Everyone in the room was horrified by the display.

"Major, you mentioned that your team has intel on Benton as well?" Abernathy says, clearly affected by the scenes that he's just viewed.

"Yes, Mister Chairman," Susanna replies. "Our team was not able to infiltrate Benton like they did with Paris. Outsiders in Benton are only viewed as food. The photos that they did take were inconclusive and did not show sufficient detail, even with a telephoto lens. They did, however, manage to obtain statements from a number of people that live in the outlying areas not under Benton's sphere of influence, and all corroborated the earlier reports of rampant cannibalism in Benton itself."

"There was one other place that Hawthorne mentioned where they had trouble," Abernathy says thoughtfully. "Has that been checked out as well?"

Susanna nods. "Clayton, New Mexico," she says, referring to her PADD. "Nothing worth getting involved with, Mister Chairman. The 'militia' there consisted of little more than a power grab from some of the locals. Hawthorne and his group managed to kill their core. The local community took care of the rest." She pauses for a moment before continuing. "And, it seems that the rest of Clayton was 'taken care of' by bubonic plague this past winter."

There was silence in the room for a moment, broken at last by Phil Abernathy. "What's the status of your reconnaissance team, Major?"

"All back in the Security Zone, Mister Chairman," Susanna replies. "I believe that they've been released from the hospital. Sir, have you seen the recommendations from General Phillips?"

"I have and I concur," Abernathy replies. "We should put the matter to a vote as long as we have the entire Committee present." He turns to face the rest of the Governance Committee. "Folks, General Phillips has recommended field commissions for two members of the reconnaissance team - Staff Sergeant Jamie Wise to First Lieutenant and Corporal Richard Snow to Second Lieutenant. In the absence of a Chief Executive and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, I move that we vote. All in favor, say aye."

"Aye!"

"Opposed?" Silence.

"Major, consider it done." Abernathy turns to Dan Crane. "Dan, could you please coordinate with Major Snow on the issuance of orders, effective, let's see - today is May Eighth. Effective today."

"Of course, Mister Chairman," Dan replies.

"Snow," Abernathy says thoughtfully. "Not a coincidence, Major?"

"No, sir," Susanna says, blushing slightly. "He's my younger brother. He was the one that infiltrated Rain Wallace's operation last year. He has a real knack for intel."

"So it would seem," Abernathy says with a smile. "Alright." Phil Abernathy turns back to the Committee. "Paris and Benton. We can't allow either fanaticism or cannibalism to propagate. We need to send a clear message to the rest of the country, and eliminate two scourges at the same time. Paul?"

"Nukes are out of the question, Mister Chairman," Paul Cresta replies. "We need something powerful that won't take a lot of assets to employ."

Amanda Dalton, former Deputy Presidential Chief of Staff, speaks up for the first time. "Wait a minute. Are we seriously discussing bombing two American cities?"

"Amanda," Rear Admiral Quentin Mason interjects, "Miss Dalton. A year ago I would have been just as horrified as you by this prospect. But we all need to understand something. The United States of America that we knew is gone. Hell, it doesn't even look the same! Coastlines have changed, climates are all out of whack. No, this is a new country. And, think about this for a moment - for every Paris, Texas...for every Benton, Arkansas...there are probably a hundred places just like it that we know nothing about!"

"Miss Dalton, these places are like cockroaches," Paul Cresta chimes in. "Like Admiral Mason said, for every Paris or Benton there's a hundred or more out there just like it. If we are to ever restore order we need to take measures that seem draconian, but in the end are absolutely essential."

"Although I'm sure that debating the morality of bombing American cities may become necessary, Amanda, I think that for now we need to focus on the issue at hand." Phil Abernathy says firmly. Amanda opens her mouth as if to say something, then shuts it just as abruptly.

"Now, then," Abernathy continues, "Suggestions, General? Admiral?"

"Fuel-air explosives," Mason says firmly. "A big enough bomb is equivalent to a small nuke. Most powerful non-nuke explosive known."

"Absolutely," Cresta says in agreement. "The Mark Twenty-Seven has a one thousand meter blast radius. One should do the trick."

"What does that mean, General?" Amanda asks. "The one thousand meter blast radius, I mean."

Paul Cresta turns to face the young woman. "It means, Miss Dalton," he explains gently, "that every living thing within one kilometer of ground zero will die. Every building will be destroyed. Casualties and destruction drop off significantly after that. About fifty percent out to two kilometers, twenty percent at three, five percent at four, and roughly zero at five."

Amanda stares at Paul Cresta in horror for a moment, then stands up abruptly. "Excuse me," she says, before rushing from the room.

"Two questions, Paul - Quentin." Abernathy says. "One. Do we have hoverplanes capable of dropping these bombs? Two. Do we even  _have_  access to these bombs?"

"Yes on both counts, Mister Chairman," Quentin Mason replies, as Paul Cresta nods.

"Alright, then," Abernathy says with a sigh. "I think a strictly 'nay' vote will suffice. All those opposed to bombing Paris and Benton, please indicate by saying 'nay.'"

Silence.

"Consider the issue passed. And please note one 'nay' vote  _in absentia_  by Amanda Dalton." Abernathy says. "When will we be ready to launch, uhh..."

"May I suggest 'Operation Genesis Nineteen,' Mister Chairman?" Paul Cresta says.

"'Genesis Nineteen?'" Abernathy asks.

"Yes, sir," Cresta replies. "The biblical book and chapter that dealt with the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah."

"Very appropriate," Abernathy says. "Okay, Operation Genesis Nineteen it is. When can we launch?"

"We don't have specifics, Mister Chairman," Mason replies, "but I can safely say in a matter of days. A week at the outside."

Phil Abernathy nods slowly. "Good. Make it happen. Dan, anything else on the agenda?"

"One more item, Mister Chairman," Dan replies. "The mutual aid and cooperation agreement that we've been working on with the remnants of the Canadian and Mexican governments."

"Is everyone familiar with what we're discussing here?" Abernathy asks. Everyone at the Committee table nods, but he's met by blank stares from the Council table.  _Oh, these Prepper anarchists are NOT gonna like this!_

"Being cooped up the way we were this last winter gave us a lot of time to dwell on the future," Abernathy begins. "And one glaring reality kept hitting us in the face. We can't sustain ourselves with what infrastructure is left for more than a few years at the most. To the best of our knowledge, we are the last and only viable government left in the world."

He pauses for a moment to let that sink in. "Now, our neighbors to the North and to the South have resources that we need...and we have resources that they need. We've been in a series of discussions with the Canadians and the Mexicans for several months now, and we think that we've come up with a solution. A merger."

"And what, exactly, are we 'merging,' Mister Chairman?" Elliott Heavensbee asks sharply.

"What's left of our three countries, Doctor Heavensbee." Abernathy replies firmly. "And, before you all leap to your feet in righteous indignation, let me reiterate the fact that, without this merger, all three of our governments will disappear in as little as five years. No more sovereign nations. No more infrastructure. What will end up happening will be dozens, if not hundreds, of independent little feudal city-states. In effect, our civilization will take a giant step backwards to say, oh, the Thirteenth Century."

"I don't like this idea one bit," Heavensbee snarls, as the other Enclave members nod in agreement.

"Neither do I," Abernathy says calmly, standing up. "Look, if it's any consolation, the United States will be the senior partner in all this. Folks, we've examined this problem for months. Do nothing and each government will go out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Oh, I'm sure that in ten or twenty years we'll still be here, burrowed into Cheyenne Mountain, pretending to be in control. But the fact remains that we would just be one more of those feudal city-states that I mentioned. Believe me, this merger will make us stronger, not weaker."

"When is all of this supposed to take place?" Stu Flickerman asks.

"As soon as we can arrange transport, Mister Flickerman," Dan Crane replies. "We're shooting for our first summit meeting next month."

"We want to be part of this 'summit,'" Bobby Joe Trinket insists.

"You have my word," Abernathy replies. Amanda Dalton returns abruptly before he can say any more. Her demeanor has changed completely, a large smile wreathing her face.

"I just received word from the hospital," Amanda announces happily, "Melody Temple-Smith gave birth to a healthy baby boy about an hour ago. Fifty-four centimeters, four kilos. Mother and baby are doing fine."

"That's wonderful!" Katharine Heavensbee says.

"Do they have a name?" Asks Julia Trinket.

"Marcellus." Amanda replies. "Marcellus Temple-Smith. The first post-Impact child born in the Cheyenne Mountain Complex."


	22. SPRING

**CHAPTER 22 - SPRING**

**COMBINED LAW ENFORCEMENT OPERATIONS HEADQUARTERS, PINE BLUFF, ARKANSAS - EARLY MAY, 2071**

The small group mills around restlessly, checking their bicycles and their loads for the tenth time in the last hour. Two men stand slightly off to the side talking quietly.

"Sure I can't talk you into staying on here?" Lucas O'Dair asks. "You and your friends helped us get through a tough winter." He pauses for a moment to take a swallow of the steaming liquid from the cup he's holding. "I don't mind tellin' you, it was nice havin' an 'in' with the Feds in Colorado."

"Luke, we all have families waiting for us," Jack Hawthorne replies. "But I want you to know that we all appreciate the offer. We've felt safer here than anyplace else since we left Cheyenne Mountain. You and Colonel Howard are to be commended for the job you've done in keeping the peace here."

"Speaking of that," Lucas says, "Taylor asked me to give you all her regards. She's still up at the Arsenal. They're just about done with the security op there but she won't be back until tomorrow at the earliest."

"We understand," Jack replies. "Tell her thanks from all of us. And thanks for helping us with our route today."

Lucas grins. "No problem. Just stay on U.S. Seventy-Nine. The Seventy-Nine Ferry will get you all across the Arkansas River at no charge. They're expecting you." Lucas suddenly drops his voice to a near whisper. "Also, we got word this morning. The Feds are gonna hit Paris and Benton with an air strike. Seems good news travels fast."

Jack nods solemnly. "It needs to be done, but I can't help but feel bad for the good people that'll get caught in the strike."

Lucas looks grim as he replies. "The 'good' people in both places have had plenty of time to light outta there. Whoever's left is either a participant or condoning what's going on. This'll send a nice loud message that this sort of thing will not be tolerated!"

"I suppose you're right, Luke," Jack says.

"Hawthorne!" Jack turns at the sound of his name. PJ Abernathy is straddling his bike, looking impatient. "Are we gonna hit the road, or what? We're burnin' daylight!"

"Two minutes!" Jack calls out. "Saddle up, everyone!" He turns back to Lucas and sticks out his hand. "Luke, it's been a genuine pleasure. Take care and good luck. Tell Holly, Luke Junior and Sam goodbye and thanks from me, will you?"

Lucas grips Jack's hand warmly. "Will do. Safe travels, Jack," he says, then pulls the other man into a quick embrace. "And watch Abernathy," Luke whispers. "That kid's a loose cannon."

"Will do," Jack replies quietly as he releases Lucas's hand and swings his leg over his bike. "PJ, head on out!"

PJ Abernathy nods once and mounts his bike, immediately pedaling towards the U.S. Highway that they will be on for the first leg of their trip. Jack watches for a few seconds then mounts his own bike and, with a quick backward glance at Lucas, falls in with the rest of the travelers to resume their journey.

_A few more weeks if we're lucky,_  he says to himself.  _God, I miss Victoria!_

Jack shakes his head and concentrates on putting kilometers behind him.

**CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - SECURITY AND INTELLIGENCE DETACHMENT - MID MAY, 2071**

"Sit down, Jamie," Major Susanna Snow says, smiling warmly at the tall, athletic soldier as she walks into her office.

"Thank you, ma'am," First Lieutenant Jamie Wise says, sliding into the proffered chair in front of Susanna's desk. In spite of her rank and standing, Jamie is not dressed like a soldier - instead, she's wearing nondescript civilian attire - plaid, long sleeve Pendleton shirt, blue jeans, and sturdy boots. A pair of sunglasses is hooked into the neck of her shirt.

"What's on your mind, Jamie?" Susanna asks.

Jamie runs her hand nervously through the tight, dark curls on her head before responding. "I hear that there's gonna be an air strike against Paris and Benton soon."

"Where did you hear that?" Susanna asks quietly.

"Here and there," Jamie replies evasively. "I've been a soldier for a while, Major. I know what questions to ask - and who to ask them to."

Susanna leans back in her chair. "You know that's classified info, right, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jamie says respectfully. "And it's based on intel that I helped develop."

Susanna regards the young sergeant with narrowed eyes. "You want something, don't you?"

"What makes you say that, Major?" Jamie asks.

"Jamie, listen to me," Susanna says, sitting upright and leaning towards Jamie. "I think it would be best if we both agreed to be honest with each other, don't you think?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jamie replies steadily. "That would be best."

"Okay," Susanna says. "Spill it."

Jamie takes a deep breath before replying. "I want out."

"Out?" Susanna parrots. "Out of what?"

"This," Jamie says, waving her hand around. "Intel. Recon. I'm not cut out to be a spook. I'm a grunt, Major. Not a spy."

Susanna sighs deeply. "Jamie, I have to admit I'm surprised. You're a damn fine soldier  _and_  a leader that your troops respect. Not to mention, you have a knack for intel ops. If I'm gonna lose a damn fine field agent I would like to know the reason why."

"Simple, Major," Jamie replies. "I didn't sign up for this."

Susanna steeples her fingers and touches the tips to her lips. "Go on."

"Major Snow," Jamie continues, "all I ever wanted to be was a soldier. I graduated high school six months early and had my mother sign the papers 'cause I was only seventeen at the time. I love the Army and believe wholeheartedly in my oath. But things have changed. Times have changed. We're not fighting an enemy. We're not facing off against a hostile army. We're shooting  _civilians_. We're bombing towns -  _American_  towns. Who's the enemy, Major?"

"Didn't your oath say 'against all enemies, foreign  _and_  domestic?'" Susanna asks. "Whether you realize it or not, we are at war. On our side is law, order, peace, and stability. On the other side is lawlessness and anarchy."

"Major, I respect you," Jamie replies. "You've always treated me fairly. And in return, I've always tried to do right by you. I wasn't happy about having your brother assigned to my squad, but I watched out for him. I've always been the best soldier I could be, but I ain't got the stomach for this. This bombing business...people that ain't got nothin' to do with those religious nuts or the cannibals are gonna be killed right along side those that deserve it!"

Susanna leans back in her chair and sighs heavily. "Jamie, you're absolutely right," she says quietly. Jamie looks at her in surprise. "Yes, I agree with you one hundred percent. But we don't have sufficient troops to mount a ground action against either Paris or Benton." Susanna turns and uncovers a map of the United States that is hanging on the wall behind her. "Take a look at this," she says. "This is based on our latest topo surveys, including orbital photos taken from Clarke Station before the crew was forced to abandon it. By the way, there's been no confirmed sightings of any of the crew since they abandoned the station."

Jamie examines the map, noting the drastically altered coastlines and large numbers of areas on the map that were shaded in red. "I never knew it was this bad," she says quietly.

"This map is classified, by the way," Susanna says pointedly. "And yeah. It's bad." Susanna pulls down a clear plastic overlay and carefully aligns it to the map. "Take a look at this overlay. The areas shaded in red indicate communities that no longer exist - ranging from villages with pre-impact populations of under a thousand up to and including major cities and metropolitan areas."

"No longer exist?" Jamie asks, tracing her fingers over the overlay and lingering over a spot in Northern Georgia that's free of any red shading.

"Yes," Susanna explains, "either as a result of Impact damage or destroyed and/or abandoned as a result of the epidemics last winter. Take a look at this," she says, and pulls down another overlay that covers the map and first overlay. "These are the fourteen major metropolitan areas that we've been able to identify that meet certain criteria that's been established here - existing central authority, a surviving infrastructure, an industrial, manufacturing, or farming capability, and a surviving rail network." Susanna takes a deep breath before continuing. "Fourteen. That's it. And one is actually in Canada."

"Major," Jamie asks, "why are you showing me this? I'm just a grunt, I ain't got no 'need to know.'"

Susanna sighs, rubbing her hand over her face before continuing. "Washington, DC is gone. Where you and I are sitting, right here, right now, is the new Capitol. But unless we can get firm lines of communication going with these other thirteen areas, and unless we can start to share goods and services, this country will completely cease to exist in a very short time. Take a look at the overlay." Susanna begins to point.

"Here, in Omaha, the Fusion Complex not only survived, but is operational. This one plant could provide all the power necessary for what's left of the United States, Canada, and Mexico. The problem is, they are critically short on food there."

"Detroit has the largest number of operational trains anywhere in the surviving United States. We can use these to link all fourteen areas together. What Detroit lacks, in addition to food, is reliable power."

"Indianapolis has several surviving, operational textile plants. Our clothing won't last forever. We'll need to replace it eventually, along with a thousand other uses for textiles. The problem they have is a lack of raw materials - wool that's available in Fort Worth, Texas and cotton that can be shipped from Atlanta, Georgia, is just sitting there, waiting for trains. Fort Worth can also supply livestock for food as well. And of course Indianapolis could use power from Omaha to run their textile factories."

"Ma'am, I'm afraid you've lost me," Jamie says. "What does wool from Texas, cotton from Georgia, power from Nebraska, and trains from Michigan have to do with us bombing two towns in Texas and Arkansas?"

"Simple," Susanna replies. "Authority. We need to establish that  _we_  are the authority. Cheyenne Mountain was very carefully stocked with everything that we would need to get the country up and running again - but unless our authority is acknowledged and respected, what we'll end up with is a feudal society of fourteen city-states, each of whom will decide what price the others must pay for their services and assistance. We can't have that. A message  _must_  be sent that  _we_  are the authority! And I think that sacrificing two renegade cities is a small price to pay for the message that it'll send to the rest."

Jamie regards Susanna gravely for several long seconds before replying. "So, this bombing mission is about sending a  _message?_  Major Snow, with all due respect, that's not what we're all about, ma'am."

"Jamie," Susanna says slowly, "the message is secondary. Both cities need to be dealt with. We have a separate Reinforced Brigade Combat Team in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, and another in Dallas/Fort Worth. Both have their hands full with keeping the peace in their respective communities. Asking either of these cities to send a Battalion-sized task force to take care of Paris or Benton would severely undermine their peace-keeping missions."

Jamie looks unconvinced. Finally Susanna says, "Okay, I see I haven't convinced you. What is it you want?"

"I want back with the troops," Jamie replies evenly.

Susanna folds her arms in front of her chest and is silent for a moment. "Jamie, your talents would not be realized to their greatest potential running a Stryker platoon. Perhaps you would like to see some of the positive strides that we're making. How would you like to be a part of history?"

Jamie frowns in confusion. "Ma'am?"

"We're hosting a summit meeting in a few weeks between us and what's left of the governments of Mexico and Canada," Susanna explains. "The goal is to merge all three governments into one in order to better promote mutual aid and cooperation. The delegations from Canada and Mexico will need an escort. We're looking at travel overland rather than flying."

"Why not flying?" Jamie asks, puzzled. "We could get them all here in less than a day."

"We don't have sufficient air assets to move these delegations either quickly or efficiently," Susanna replies. "Our hoverplanes are not heavy-lift. And aviation-grade hydrogen fuel is at a premium. We're still working on the railway network. Travel by vehicle is our only option at this point."

"The roads ain't gonna be in any great shape either, Major," Jamie points out.

"That's why we intend to use Strykers as our transport vehicles," Susanna explains. "We're looking at putting together two hand-picked reinforced companies, complete with mobile hydrogen fuel manufacturing vehicles for en route refueling. The Strykers are amphibious so washed out bridges shouldn't be a problem."

Jamie looks interested for the first time. "You said 'reinforced,' ma'am. How are these companies gonna be outfitted?"

"Command section with Command and Control, Communications, Medical, Maintenance and Fuel Tanker Strykers. Three Stryker Platoons of five Cavalry Strykers each. One Gun Platoon with four Stryker Mobile Gun Systems. Twenty-four vehicles total." Susanna watches Jamie closely as she talks. "Comments?"

"Cav Strykers? Not Infantry?" Jamie asks.

"The Cav Strykers will be used to transport the delegations," Susanna explains. "So each vehicle will have a crew of four - Commander, Gunner, Driver, and Assistant Driver/Radio Operator. We figure that the Driver and A/Driver can spell each other."

"A unit that big'll be hard to hide," Jamie points out.

"We want to be seen," Susanna replies. "We're betting that no one will want to fuck with us when they see our firepower. It all goes back to that message that we want to get out that  _we_  are the authority!"

"What would be my role in this?" Jamie asks. "Platoon Leader?"

"Command and Control," Susanna says. "With me."

"You're going?" Jamie blurts in surprise. "Ma'am?"

"This is a diplomatic mission," Susanna replies. "The Canadian and Mexican delegations will expect official government representation. So Rear Admiral Mason and I, along with Elliott Heavensbee, will be escorting the Canadian delegation. Major General Cresta, Stu Flickerman, and my brother will escort the Mexican delegates. I would like to have you on Command and Control for my mission, as Executive Officer."

"How about meals en route?" Jamie asks.

Susanna smiles grimly. "Combat rations - for everyone. One more thing. We're hoping to swing the first leg of the Canadian trip via railroad. We want to make it as far as Detroit before we have to start driving. Save wear and tear on the vehicles."

"So Admiral Mason is in command?" Jamie asks. "Or will you be the commander?"

"An Infantry Captain will command each reinforced company," Susanna replies. "The Admiral and I, along with General Cresta and my brother, will handle the diplomacy for each pick up mission."

Jamie sits quietly, chewing her lip thoughtfully. "Executive Officer? Responsible for planning and executing the move?"

"Among other duties," Susanna says. "How about it? Are you in?"

Jamie stands up. "You got yourself an XO, Major," she says, sticking out her hand.

Susanna shakes Jamie's hand solemnly. "Thanks, Jamie. I can use the help." She quickly consults the PADD on her desk. "I'll need you in Conference Room "A" tomorrow morning, zero eight hundred. Preliminary planning meeting. In uniform."

"Yes, ma'am," Jamie says with a grin as she turns to leave. "I'll be there."

Susanna sits, deep in thought, for a few moments after Jamie leaves, finally interrupted by a knock on her door.

"Come," she calls out. The door opens and two men enter the room. The older of the two, a tall, rangy man, holds the door for the younger man, then closes it firmly behind him.

"Well?" The older man asks as both men take seats.

"She wanted out, like we all suspected," Susanna replies. "I convinced her to stay on." Susanna quickly brings both men up to date on the conversation that she had just finished with Jamie Wise.

The older man grunts in appreciation. "Executive Officer, huh? Well, guess you coulda done worse."

"Look, Rob, it was either that or arrest her," Susanna says sharply. "Besides that, I happen to like her. She's idealistic. She's a damn good soldier. And she knows Strykers inside and out."

"I can attest to that, Sergeant Christopher," the younger man chimes in. "She's tough, smart, and no nonsense. She was my squad leader after they picked me up last year and I was with her on the ops in Paris and Benton. She was tough but treated me fairly. She really turned me around...made me  _want_  to be a better soldier."

Sergeant Robert Christopher, liaison between the El Paso County Sheriff's Department and the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, sighs and sits back. "Susanna - Richard. My only concern is this - does she have the stomach to do things that may clash with her sense of morality?"

"Without a doubt," Second Lieutenant Richard Snow replies.

"I agree with Ricky," Susanna says.

"I hope you're both right," Christopher says. "This summit is too important.

Susanna stands up, slipping her PADD into a pouch on her belt. "You worry too much, Rob. Jamie will be fine. Now, if you two will excuse me, I'm heading over to quarters to see Melody Temple-Smith and her new baby. See you both tomorrow morning."

**SOMEWHERE OVER TEXAS AND ARKANSAS - MID MAY, 2071**

_Voice transcript of Paris/Benton Air Strike, Code Name: Operation Genesis Nineteen. Paris, Texas code named Sodom. Benton, Arkansas code named Gomorrah._

"Cheyenne, this is Genesis flight, over."

"Genesis, this is Cheyenne, go ahead."

"Genesis One here, Cheyenne. We're approaching first target Sodom. Dropping to one thousand. Slowing to four hundred. Genesis Two on station, orbiting at angels one zero kilo. Transmitting back to relay bird. Confirm when you have video, over."

"Stand by, One." There's a short pause. "Confirmed video feed from Two via relay bird."

"Roger, Cheyenne. Approaching target. Two minutes to deployment."

"Copy two minutes, One."

"Bombardier reports weapon is armed, Cheyenne. Ninety seconds."

"Copy armed, One."

"Lowering ramp, Cheyenne."  _Increase in background noise._ "Ramp fully lowered. Sixty seconds."

"Copy ramp down and sixty seconds, One."

"Cheyenne, this is One. Taking sporadic ground fire. Small arms only. No radar or laser activity. On final approach."

"Copy final approach, One. No caution and warning lights?"

"Negative, Cheyenne. Thirty seconds. Target in sight. Target...locked. Stand by for countdown."

"Copy, One."

"Beginning countdown on my mark. Mark. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Deploy."

"Copy deploy, One."

"Cheyenne and Genesis flight, this is Two. Confirm good chute deploy, weapon on target."

"Copy, Two." - "Cheyenne, this is One. Beginning evasive, increasing speed to one thousand. Closing ramp. Climbing to angels one zero kilo."

"Copy, One. Standing by for detonation confirmation, Two."

"Copy, Cheyenne."  _Pause in transmission. Static._ "Detonation. On target. Time - Zero Nine Twenty Two hours local."

"Roger, Two. Genesis flight, this is Cheyenne. We have video confirmation of detonation and fireball. Proceed to next target once Genesis One reaches angels one zero kilo. Over."

"Copy, Cheyenne. Genesis flight out."

_Approximately twenty minutes later._

"Cheyenne, this is Genesis flight, over."

"Genesis, this is Cheyenne, go ahead."

"Genesis Two here, Cheyenne. We're approaching second target Gomorrah. Dropping to one thousand. Slowing to four hundred. Genesis One on station, orbiting at angels one zero kilo. Transmitting back to relay bird. Confirm when you have video, over."

"Stand by, Two." There's a short pause. "Confirmed video feed from One via relay bird."

"Roger, Cheyenne. Approaching target. Two minutes to deployment."

"Copy two minutes, Two."

"Bombardier reports weapon is armed, Cheyenne. Ninety seconds."

"Copy armed, Two."

"Lowering ramp, Cheyenne."  _Increase in background noise._ "Ramp fully lowered. Sixty seconds."

"Copy ramp down and sixty seconds, Two."

"Radar warning, Two. Break. Cheyenne, this is One. Two's being tracked by weapons acquisition radar in target vicinity."

"Cheyenne, this is Two. Taking ground fire. Small arms, heavier than Sodom. Confirm radar tone. Employing countermeasures."  _Background sound of radar warning tone and chaff canisters being deployed._ "Beginning evasive."

"Two, negative on evasive. I say again, negative on evasive. Continue bomb run. Over."

_Long pause._  "Copy, Cheyenne. Thirty seconds. Target in sight. Target...locked. Stand by for countdown."

"Copy, Two."

"Beginning countdown on my mark. Mark. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Deploy."

"Copy deploy, Two."

"Cheyenne and Genesis flight, this is One. Confirm good chute deploy, weapon on target. Break. SAM launch from target area. Evasive!"

"Copy, One." - "Cheyenne, this is Two. They're locked on! Evasive, full military power to one thousand. Closing ramp. Climbing to angels one zero kilo!"

"Copy, Two. Standing by for detonation confirmation, One."

"Copy, Cheyenne."  _Pause in transmission. Static._ "Detonation. On target. Time - Zero Nine Forty Five hours local."

"This is Two! Missile closing, countermeasures ineffective! Evasive ineffective! Can't shake it! Hard bank to one one -"

"Cheyenne, this is One. Confirmed missile hit on Two. Right up the pipe. Midair explosion, no chutes. Over."

"Roger, One. Genesis flight, this is Cheyenne. We have video confirmation of detonation and fireball. We have video confirmation of missile strike on Two. Link up with relay bird. Return to base. Cheyenne out."

"Copy, Cheyenne. Where the fuck did they get a shoulder launched SAM? Genesis flight out."

_End of transmission._

**MONT-LAURIER, QUEBEC - LATE MAY, 2071**

"Major Holmes, we would really like to kill two birds with one stone here," Major General Paul Cresta, United States Marine Corps (Retired), and current Secretary of Homeland Security and Governance Committee Member, explains tiredly. "Surely you can understand the urgency in returning those weapons to our control."

Major Nate Holmes stares at the image on his computer screen. Electrical power is at a premium in Mont-Laurier. Holmes can even now hear the high pitched whine of the hydrogen powered generator sitting outside his headquarters building.

_Cresta looks like he's aged ten years since the last time I saw him._  A little over a year before, Paul Cresta had conducted a brief inspection of the One Hundred Third Special Transportation Company, under Holmes' command. Holmes sets his mouth in a thin line.  _Every time I hear from Cheyenne Mountain, it's the same thing. Don't they realize how badly_ I _want out of here?_

"General," Holmes replies evenly, "I've already explained to God only knows how many people what I will need as far as transport is concerned. The Saint Lawrence Seaway has basically turned into the Saint Lawrence Sea. It's about one hundred  _kilometers_  wide at the  _narrowest_  point. The few ferries that have been put into service there can't take anything as heavy as my vehicles. The Canadians either don't have air assets that are capable of transporting nukes - or, of they do they aren't saying anything. If you can get the Canadian government to give you overflight clearance,  _and_  if you have heavy airlift nuclear capable assets, I would be more than happy to turn these weapons back over to you."

"That...that is a problem," Cresta admits. "We're still working on it. Are you familiar with the upcoming summit?"

"Officially, no, sir," Holmes says. "Unofficially, I know there's gonna be one. When and where is another story."

"Dates are still classified," Cresta explains. "But it will happen. Soon. And the Governance Committee would like you, as well as Agent Coin and the York children, to attend."

"Me, General?" Holmes stares at the screen in amazement.

"You, Major," Cresta replies. "The Committee would like some personal, face-to-face assurances regarding the weapons under your control. We would also like Agent Coin, the York children, and the rest of the Secret Service detail back on United States soil."

"General, you do realize that Veronica and Edward, Junior, are living with their Aunt and Uncle here in Mont-Laurier?" Holmes asks. "And that Henri and Clotilde Liege are, to the best of my knowledge, their only surviving relatives?"

"Are you saying, Major, that you won't follow the directives of the Committee?" Cresta asks quietly.

"General, you've given me an order to be there. I  _will_  be there. However, I will not force the York kids to accompany me to Cheyenne Mountain if they choose not to go. And, sir, quite frankly I'm not entirely sure that the Governance Committee has any real National Command Authority at all. To the best of my knowledge and recollection, that authority rests with the office of the President." Holmes leans back in his chair and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Cresta stares at Holmes through the computer screen for a moment, then turns and speaks to someone off-camera briefly before turning his attention back to Holmes once again. "I understand your position on this matter," he says slowly. "And we are working to rectify the issue. Very well, Major. The decision regarding the transport of the York children shall rest  _with_  the York children. You will receive teletype orders later on today regarding the summit. Tomorrow morning at zero nine hundred we'll talk again. Please have the York children available at that time. If they wish to stay in Mont-Laurier the Committee would like to hear that from them personally. Cresta out."

The computer screen suddenly goes blank as the transmission ends.

"That went rather well, don't you think?" Captain Stephanie Hart, Executive Officer of the One Hundred Third Special Transportation Company, says sarcastically.

"Stow it, Captain," Holmes snaps, "And at ease that shit. Paul Cresta is still a Marine Corps Major General."

"Sorry, Major," Hart replies, mollified.

Holmes wipes his face with his hands before responding. "Forget it," he says gruffly. "Christ, I'm tired."

"I can pretty much tell you what the kids' answer will be, Nate," Gregory Coin, Special Agent in Charge of the Secret Service Protection Unit charged with guarding the children of the deceased President Janice York, says. "They're not gonna want to go to Cheyenne Mountain. Henri and Clotilde Liege are the only family that they have left."

"Maybe I should talk to them before tomorrow," Holmes says. "Just to make sure. I don't relish the thought of having to travel through God only knows what while trying to look after a couple of fourteen year old kids."

"Not a bad idea," Coin says, nodding. "Couldn't hurt, anyway - and if they're waffling towards going we just might be able to convince them otherwise."

"No coercion," Holmes says sharply. "If they decide to go we simply lay out what hazards they can expect to face and let them decide for themselves."

"Want me to get them over here, sir?" Hart asks.

"Yeah," Holmes replies after a moment. "And Stephanie? See if Superintendent Pearcy is available. I would like to know exactly how much, if anything, he knows about this summit. If I'm gonna be dragged to Colorado I want to know exactly why I'm gonna be risking my life."

"Aye aye, sir," Hart says as she leaves the room.

* * *

Major Nathan Holmes smiles warmly at the pair of twins being ushered into his office. "Hello, Veronica. Hello, Ed. Thanks for coming by. Did Captain Hart tell you why I wanted to see you?"

"Yes, sir," Ed York, Junior, replies. "She said that Cheyenne Mountain wants to bring us there."

"Tell me what you think of the idea," Holmes says.

Both teenagers glance at each other before Veronica replies. "If we're being given a choice, we want to stay here." The girl says firmly, as her brother nods his head.

"I'm supposed to talk to General Cresta tomorrow, and he would like for you two to be there to tell him what you've decided to do." Holmes explains. "Do you remember General Cresta?"

"Yes, sir," Ed replies. "He was my mother's Homeland Security Secretary."

"Right," Holmes confirms, "and now he's part of something called the Governance Committee. They're running things in the absence of actually having a President."

"We heard something about that," Veronica says. "Something about Mister Cray being sick."

"That's right," Holmes says. "We were told it was a temporary measure until a new President could be elected."

"Like my Mom," Ed says quietly.

"Yes, Ed," Holmes says softly. "Like your Mom."

"Both Ed and I want to stay here, Major Holmes," Veronica says firmly. "We've made friends here, we're going to the school that was started up, and no one cares that our Mom was President of the United States."

"Guys, I don't want you to make any snap decisions," Holmes says sternly. "Remember how hungry and sick everyone was last winter? There's no guarantees that next winter will be any better."

"We'd like to stay, Major," Ed says stubbornly.

"Okay," Holmes says with a smile. "Fair enough. We'll need you back here tomorrow so you can tell that to General Cresta, alright?"

"We'll be here," Veronica promises. Once they leave, Holmes sighs and leans back in his chair.

"That's a weight lifted off me," he says, relieved. "Not having to worry about those kids."

The field phone on the desk buzzes. Holmes leans over, picks it up, listens for a moment, then says, "Send him in." A moment later, the door opens. Holmes stands up, his hand outstretched.

"Superintendent Pearcy," he says warmly. "Bill, thanks for coming by. I have a few questions regarding this summit meeting and I want to pick your brain."

**INTERSTATE FIFTY-FIVE FERRY TERMINUS - MISSISSIPPI RIVER, MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE - LATE MAY, 2071**

Jack Hawthorne stands with his back to the wind, his shoulders hunched against the chill rain blowing in over the river. He quickly glances at the approaching ferry making its slow way across the Mississippi, then turns back to his companions.

"Our best bet is to get across the river and try to make it out of the metro area before nightfall," Tom Jackson says. "We can head out for Louisville at first light."

Frank Donner offers a small smile at this news. "Almost home," he says quietly.

"We'll miss you, Frank," Jack says warmly. "You'll be the first of our group to reach home!"

"When was the last time you heard from your wife, Frank?" Dave Malarkey asks.

"Three months," Frank replies in a worried tone. "She didn't say much but I got the feeling that things weren't so great in Louisville."

"Well, with any luck we'll be there in a couple more weeks," Dave says assuredly.

"I hope so," Frank says. "I'm so tired of being on the road."

"We all are, buddy," Morgan Boggs chimes in. "I envy you, Jack, the Malarkeys and PJ. Your trip's just about over. Henry, myself, Tom, and the Cartwrights have to head up into New York and New England still."

"And a hell of a trip it's been, too," Brad Cartwright says softly.

* * *

A short while later, the group watches as the ferry slowly warps in to the pier, then stops. With the crew admonishing the waiting passengers to step back, the front ramp is quickly lowered and the passengers on the ferry begin to disembark.

The travelers stand off to one side, waiting impatiently as the ferry disgorges passengers and cargo.

"How many trips a day do you make?" Henry Mitchell asks a crewman as the crewman ties off the ferry to a large cleat.

"Start at sunup, quit at sundown," the man says succinctly, as more arriving passengers stream off the boat. "Five round trips on an average day."

"Frank?"

Frank Donner's head twists around at the sound of the female voice calling his name. His eyes come to a rest on a woman, bent over slightly from the weight of a large pack, shuffling off the ferry. Jack glances over at him, seeing his eyes widen in surprise and shock.

"Raquel?" Frank says, his voice filled with disbelief. The woman makes her way over to Frank, staring up at him as she drops her pack to the ground.

"Frank," she sobs, tears streaming down her face as Frank wraps his arms around her and he presses his mouth to hers in a long kiss.

Dave Malarkey turns to Jack Hawthorne and says with a smile, "I do believe we've just met Frank's wife."


	23. SUMMIT

**CHAPTER 23 - SUMMIT**

**JUST OUTSIDE WEST HENRIETTA, NEW YORK - INTERSTATE NINETY GENESEE RIVER BRIDGE - FIRST ESCORT COMPANY (PROVISIONAL) - MID JUNE, 2071**

"They're asking for a toll, Skipper," First Lieutenant Jamie Wise says softly.

Captain Brandon Estes, Commander of the First Escort Company, sighs heavily. "How much?"

Jamie names a price. Estes snorts derisively. "Is that all?" he asks sarcastically.

"It is the only operational bridge in the area, Skipper," Jamie points out. "We  _could_  swim the Strykers - barely. The current speed is at the high end of our capabilities to swim the vehicles. Bottom line is, we'd get across...probably. But the current would scatter the Strykers downriver for several klicks. It'd take us hours to reconsolidate, not to mention how vulnerable we'd be reorganizing."

"Brandon, we can't afford the lost time," Rear Admiral Quentin Mason says emphatically. "We must arrive at Point Whiskey on time to pick up the Canadian delegation."

"I know, Admiral," Estes says brusquely. "I also know that we can't afford to give up five hundred liters of refined vehicle grade hydrogen, or one hundred cases of combat rations, or twenty-five cases of fifty caliber linked ammunition."

"Jesus Christ," Elliott Heavensbee says disgustedly, "why in the blue fuck are we negotiating with these morons? We're on an official diplomatic mission! I say we give 'em ten minutes to get outta the way, then we come through - ready or not."

"Elliott," Major Susanna Snow says gently, "We're trying to avoid unnecessary conflict. We want to convince these people that we're on their side."

"Just like you convinced the good folk of Paris, Texas, that you're on  _their_  side as well?" Elliott says with a nasty grin.

"That was a totally different case!" Susanna says, her voice rising. "That's bullshit, Elliott, and you know it! Paris was -"

"At ease, Major," Mason says softly. "And, Doctor Heavensbee - I remind you that your participation in this mission is as a civilian observer only. Please don't force me to remind you again."

Elliott glares at Mason for a moment, then turns away and spits on the ground. "Observer, my ass," he mutters.

Mason ignores him and instead turns to Jamie. "Lieutenant, where's the toll keeper?"

Jamie points to a cargo semi-trailer sitting up on blocks, its wheels removed. "Over there, sir."

"What say we try to negotiate?" Mason asks with a smile.

Jamie shrugs. "We can try, Admiral - not that it'll do any good. These folks are pretty cocky."

"Let's give it a shot," Mason says firmly. "Major, would you accompany me, please?"

"Of course, Admiral," Susanna says, falling in next to Mason as they both stride purposefully toward the toll keepers trailer.

Estes watches them go, then turns to Jamie. "What's your assessment, Jamie?"

Jamie shakes her head. "It's a tough call, Skipper," she says. "I didn't see any weapons anywhere, but that little fuck over in the trailer didn't seem to be too intimidated by our firepower."

"He's bluffing," Elliott Heavensbee insists.

"Maybe, Doc," Estes says thoughtfully, "But a bluff like that either means he has a huge set of balls - or he has the means to back it up." Estes pauses, scanning the area around the near side of the bridge with binoculars. "Where would you defend from, Jamie?"

Without hesitation, Jamie points. "That building there, and that one over there. That burned out car there. That overturned truck there. Even the toll keepers semi trailer."

Estes nods in satisfaction. "Exactly. Okay, this is what we're gonna do." He quickly outlines his proposal to Jamie, who looks at him grimly. Estes regards her carefully.

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" he asks.

Jamie stares back at her Commanding Officer, the shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "No, sir. No problem."

"Good!" Estes says. "Okay. Pass the word to the gun Strykers. I'll go and talk to First Platoon. With any luck we'll be able to 'convince' the keepers of the bridge to let us pass quietly."

"What about Mason and Snow?" Jamie asks.

"Their mission is diplomatic," Estes replies calmly. "Mine is to get them to Point Whiskey and back in one piece, with the Canadians, and on time." He smiles at Jamie. "You have your orders, XO. Carry them out. And one more thing. No radio traffic. I have no idea if any of the locals are listening in. If necessary, I'll give the command by radio. Pass the word to listen for the code phrase 'Execute Tango Foxtrot.'"

"'Tango Foxtrot,'" Jamie repeats. "Got it, Skipper." Estes and Heavensbee watch her trot off toward the nearest gun Stryker.

"About time someone did something," Elliott Heavensbee says, falling in stride with Captain Estes as the pair head toward First Platoon.

"Doc, it's something I wish I didn't have to do," Estes replies grimly.

* * *

"Mister Powell, your toll demands seem excessive," Rear Admiral Quentin Mason eyes the other man with barely concealed distaste. Ford Powell reminds Mason of what a rabbit would look like if it were somehow suddenly transformed into human form.  _Gotta be careful with this one,_  he says to himself.  _He's just as dangerous as one of those genetically modified Wolverabbits._

"That's the beauty of runnin' a monopoly on river crossings, General," Powell says with an unpleasant grin. "We get to charge whatever we want."

"It's Admiral," Mason replies coldly. "Not General."

"General, Admiral, none of that means jack shit around here," Powell says, spitting on the ground for emphasis. "You could be the freakin' President of the United States for all I care. 'Bout time you people understand that all that shit went south the second that damn comet hit us. Just who  _is_  President now, anyway?"

Susanna Snow swallows her revulsion and flashes Powell what she hoped was a sincere smile. "Surely, Mister Powell, there must be  _some_  room for negotiation."

Powell's eyes quickly elevator up and down Susanna before he replies. "Why,  _of course_  there's always a little wiggle room, Gorgeous!" He replies with a leer. His words and tone left no doubt with either Admiral Mason or Major Snow exactly what kind of "wiggle room" Powell has in mind.

Susanna's commicuff buzzes before she has a chance to reply to Powell. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen," she says, flashing both men a quick smile.

Susanna walks a few steps away, half listening to Mason and Powell banter back and forth. "Snow," she says brusquely, holding the commicuff to her mouth and pressing the ear bud firmly into her right ear.

"Estes here, Major. Did you get a look inside the trailer?"

"Negative," Susanna replies softly. "Why?"

"I have an alternate plan," Estes replies. "What's the status on negotiations?"

Susanna sighs heavily before replying, her voice a near whisper. "No change. What's your 'alternate plan,' Captain?"

"I'll try to brief you and the Admiral when you come back, Major," Estes replies. " _If_ there's time. One more thing. Can you bring the toll keeper back with you? Give him some pretense. Tell him anything. Just bring him back with you."

"Will do," Susanna replies, then adds, "Brandon...I'm trusting you on this one."

"Copy," Estes says. "Estes out."

"Snow out," Susanna ends the transmission and turns back to Powell and Mason. Both men look at her quizzically.

"Good news," Susanna says with a smile. "Captain Estes has assembled everything you've asked for in toll, Mister Powell. Would you like to come inspect everything before we seal the deal?"

Quentin Mason arches his eyebrows. "Susanna, I don't recall that we've come to an agreement on anything here," he says quietly.

"Admiral, perhaps if Mister Powell had the opportunity to view what we have to offer for his toll, it would show our good faith," Susanna replies, meet Mason's eye and trying to send him a message of  _trust me_  with her eyes.

Mason hesitates for a moment before turning to Powell. "How about it, Mister Powell? Would you care to take a look at our toll offer?"

Powell grins unpleasantly. "One minute," he says, quickly ducking into the blocked semi-trailer. He returns momentarily, trailed by a pair of armed men. "Lead on, General."

* * *

"Mister Powell, this is Captain Estes, commanding the First Escort Company," Mason says.

"Cut the shit, General," Powell snaps, ignoring Estes. "Where the fuck is my toll?" He doesn't notice Jamie Wise moving nonchalantly to his rear.

"I'll call for it to be brought out now," Estes replies calmly, lifting his commicuff to his mouth. "Execute Tango Foxtrot," he says softly.

A second later, the bark of four high-velocity guns echoes through the mid-morning calm, immediately joined by the rhythmic thumping of chain guns on full automatic fire. No one notices the almost inaudible reports of a pair of rifle shots - but everyone in the small group sees both of Powell's bodyguards slump to the ground.

Powell's eyes widen in disbelief, but before he can make a move or a sound in response to the sudden barrage of firepower, he feels something cold pressed against the back of his neck.

"Don't even  _think_  about it," Jamie hisses, pressing her pistol firmly against Powell's neck.

The big guns bark again before Estes calmly speaks into his commicuff again. The firing stops instantly.

Susanna Snow steps forward. "I take it this is your 'alternate plan,' Captain?" She asks coldly, waving her hand at the destruction caused by the gunfire. In the distance, buildings, abandoned vehicles, the wheel-less semi-trailer, and the rolling roadblock of vehicles blocking the road onto the bridge were burning, with secondary detonations of ammunition penetrating the sudden quiet.

"Major, it was pretty obvious that diplomacy was going nowhere," Estes replies calmly. "And my mission is to get you to Point Whiskey on time."

"What's done is done," Admiral Mason snaps. "Captain, we'll discuss this at another time. For now, we still need to get across the bridge."

"Yes, sir," Estes replies, then turns to Jamie Wise. "Lieutenant? Send Second Platoon up to remove the barricades, please."

"Yes, sir!" Jamie replies, speaking rapidly into her commicuff. Seconds later, Second Platoon rolls forward toward the barricade. Once there, soldiers quickly dismount, attaching tow cables to the smoldering vehicle hulks. The Strykers roll back in reverse, dragging the remains of the barricade off the road.

"You dumb fucks," Powell spits. "Okay, so you blew the barriers on  _this_  side. What the fuck are you gonna do on the  _far_  side? Huh? My guys heard the shootin'! They'll be ready for you! You stupid shits are all gonna die today!"

Estes grins unpleasantly at Powell. "And that's where you come in, Rabbit," he says, wrapping a friendly arm around Powell's scrawny shoulders. He glances at the two soldiers standing nearby...the same ones that killed Powell's bodyguard. "Take our guest to my vehicle. Make him 'comfortable.' You know what to do. We move in five minutes."

The soldiers hustle off, Ford Powell being dragged between them. Estes turns back to Quentin Mason and Susanna Snow. "Admiral - Major. You and Doctor Heavensbee better mount up. We've got some distance to cover."

"Captain," Mason says, "what exactly are you planning on doing with Powell?"

"Just a little insurance, Admiral," Estes says with a grin. "Now sir - ma'am. And Doctor. Let's get mounted up."

The trio watch as Captain Estes trots back to his vehicle. "That guy has got some balls on him," Elliott Heavensbee mutters admiringly. The three quickly walk back to the communications vehicle and climb in.

"'Insurance," Mason says softly. "What the hell did he mean by that?"

* * *

The amplified voice of Captain Brandon Estes booms over the onboard public address system on his command and control vehicle. "Remove the barricades, stand aside, and let us pass in peace. Fire on us and your boss is a dead man."

"Move the fucking barricades!" Ford Powell screams. He's lashed firmly to the sloping front armor of the command and control Stryker. The vehicle sits in the middle of the bridge, idling quietly. The rest of the company is lined up behind the lead vehicle.

Estes eyes the barricades through the armored view port in the Stryker's turret. "Come on, come on," he whispers. Outside, Ford Powell is still screaming for his people to move the barricades.

"Yes!" Estes breathes as he sees the barricades being rolled off the roadway. When the roadway was entirely clear, he orders his driver to move forward slowly. The vehicle rumbles forward, and half a minute later clears the far side barricade. Estes orders his driver to maintain speed, and to pull over after traveling three kilometers past the bridge.

"Anything?" Estes tersely asks his gunner.

The gunner shakes her head. "Nothing, Skipper. They're keeping their heads down."

Estes nods grimly. He depresses the "push to talk" button on his radio. "All Escort elements, this is Escort Six Actual. Maintain one hundred percent alert until further notice. Trail vehicle, report when you're off the bridge. Over."

"Escort Six Actual, this is Escort Gun Four in trail. Wilco. Out."

A few minutes later the radio crackles to life again. "Escort Six Actual, this is Escort Gun Four. Cleared the bridge. I say again, cleared the bridge. Over."

"Roger that. Copy cleared the bridge, Gun Four. Six Actual out."

"Gun Four out."

A short while later, the vehicle begins to slow as the driver's voice comes over the intercom. "Three klicks, Skipper."

"Copy," Estes replies, then keys up his radio again. "All Escort elements, this is Six Actual. Five minute stretch and piss break. Five minutes. Six Actual out."

The Stryker comes to a smooth stop and Estes drops down from the turret into the vehicle. He turns to his gunner and assistant driver. "Go out and get the Rabbit off my vehicle," he orders. The two soldiers comply instantly, climbing out the rear door and quickly making their way to the front of the vehicle. Estes follows behind closely.

Ford Powell slides clumsily off the front slope of the Stryker, rubbing his wrists and stumbling slightly as the circulation returns to his limbs. He glares at Estes, hatred shooting from his eyes.

Captain Brandon Estes glances down at a large wet spot on the front of Powell's soiled pants. "What's the matter, Rabbit?" He asks with a smirk. "Didn't like the drive?"

"Do it," Powell says, straightening up, his hands trembling. "Get it over with."

"Oh, Rabbit," Estes says with a laugh, "Do you think I'm gonna  _kill_  you? I'm letting you go!"

Powell stares back at Estes, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You're...letting me go?" He asks in a trembling voice.

"Of course I am," Estes replies in a friendly tone. "After all, we'll be coming back this way soon - and I know I can expect your full cooperation with crossing your bridge. Right?"

Powell just nods dumbly in response. "Good!" Estes says. "Now get on back. Tell your friends that they are to remove the barricades as soon as my convoy comes into sight. And if anyone so much as  _looks_  at us wrong, we'll light you up so bad they'll have to use DNA to ID what's left. Got it?"

Powell nods again. "One more thing, Rabbit," Estes says. "You might want to do a little research in your spare time. Find out what happened to Paris, Texas, and Benton, Arkansas. Run along now."

Powell needs no more urging. He turns, and, without a word or backward glance, hurries up the old interstate highway towards the bridge.

Estes turns and quickly relieves himself against one of the Stryker tires. As he turns back, he sees Quentin Mason and Susanna Snow standing behind him, patiently waiting for him to finish.

"Captain, a word please," Mason says firmly.

_Might as well get this over with,_ Estes says to himself. "Yes, sir?"

"Captain, I'm career Navy," Mason begins. "I understand the applied use of force. But this  _is_  a diplomatic mission. The last thing we need is to alienate every community that we roll through. We need  _everyone_  on our side for us to succeed!"

"Admiral. Major." Estes pauses for a moment. "I appreciate the gravity of this mission. But back there, we weren't dealing with a local government trying to get by and keep their citizens safe. Powell is a thug overcharging for the use of the only standing bridge in the area."

"I understand," Mason replies. "And in this case, perhaps your actions had some merit. And I know that you've been given broad discretion to use deadly force in order to accomplish our mission. But perhaps you, I, and Major Snow need to discuss specific situations that would call for your acting independently. Like the incident today."

"Yes, sir," Estes replies dutifully.

"Mount up!" Jamie's voice calls out.

"We'll talk tonight, Captain," Mason says, as he and Susanna turn to leave.

_Lord save me from the brass,_  Estes says to himself as he climbs back into the Stryker.

**DETROIT RAILHEAD - FIRST ESCORT COMPANY (PROVISIONAL) - MID JUNE, 2071**

"Everything's loaded and tied down, Skipper," First Lieutenant Jamie Wise reports to Captain Brandon Estes.

"Excellent, Jamie," Estes replies. "Train rolls in thirty minutes. Get with the First Sergeant on troop billet assignments. See you on the train."

"Yes, sir," Jamie replies smartly. Estes turns back to Quentin Mason and Susanna Snow. "Okay, Admiral. Vehicles are loaded and tied down. My XO and First Sergeant are getting the troops settled in. Is the Acting Prime Minister and his party on board?"

"Yes," Mason replies. "And Major Holmes as well."

"And he's none too happy," Susanna adds.

"Can't say as I blame him," Estes says. "From what I understand, he's let Cheyenne Mountain know exactly what the requirements are for moving the nukes. I would think that they would be glad that they're all still under United States control."

"And that subject, Captain," Mason says gently, but firmly, "Is classified, and is something that you do not have a 'need to know' about."

"Yes, sir," Estes says contritely.

"Oh, hell," Mason says, "I know how it is, Brandon. You can't be around the brass and staff pukes without picking up things you aren't supposed to know about. Just remember to forget about it before getting back to Cheyenne Mountain, okay?"

"Admiral," Susanna says, "Shouldn't we be boarding? You mentioned wanting to get with Acting Prime Minister Bouvier ASAP."

"Right you are, Susanna," Mason says with a smile. "It seems that the Canadians have some concerns over the legitimacy of our current government - something else you aren't supposed to know anything about, Brandon."

"Know about what, Admiral?" Estes asks innocently.

"Exactly," Mason replies. "Okay, Captain. See you on the train. I know you have a company to run."

"See you on the train, Admiral - Major," Estes says. As Mason and Snow climb aboard the train, Estes pulls a PADD out of a cargo pocket and examines an entry, then taps his commicuff and brings it to his mouth.

"Jamie? You and Top get the billeting assignments? Good. Listen, I need to talk with you about the After Action Report on the Genesee River Bridge Incident. Yeah, my compartment. Okay, see you in ten. Out."

Estes sighs and climbs onto the train.  _Gonna be a long ride,_  he says to himself.

**CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX - EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM - LATE JUNE, 2071**

The remainder of the journey of the First Escort Company (Provisional) had been conducted without incident. Their sister unit, the Second Escort Company (Provisional), had completed their mission without an incident of any kind. Both delegations had toured the Cheyenne Mountain Complex as well as the nearby city of Colorado Springs, and both delegations had been impressed with the heightened standard of living exhibited in both places, especially in comparison with the rest of the country.

Now, both the Canadian and Mexican delegations, as well as the Governance Committee and its satellite, the Capitol Council, were seated in the Executive Conference Room of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex to begin the first of several meetings, the goal of which was to formalize mutual aid agreements and pool each countries' resources.

Phillip Abernathy stands and raps a gavel sharply, once. "Ladies and gentlemen, let's come to order, please," he says. "Let the record show that this is the opening meeting of the North American Summit. There has been a motion to refer to this conference as the Pan American Summit. We'll record only negative votes on this issue. Any opposed, please state as such by voting 'Nay.'"

Abernathy pauses for a moment as the room falls silent. He raps his gavel once more. "The motion is carried. Let the record be amended from 'North American Summit' to 'Pan American Summit.' Alright. Agenda item number one. Mister President, you have the floor."

Alejandro Vargas Salazar, the Acting President of the Republic of Mexico, stands up. "Thank you, Mister Chairman," he says, only a slight trace of accent in his speech. "My esteemed colleague, Interim Prime Minister Bouvier, and I, have grave concerns regarding the legitimacy of your current government. You've in effect functioned without a President since last October. Our concerns, and one that is shared with the Canadians, are twofold - one, your Constitution does not have a provision for the Executive branch to be administered by committee, and two - this has the potential to destabilize the entire continent."

Abernathy nods solemnly as Salazar sits back down. "Duly noted and your concerns are legitimate," he says. "Mister Prime Minister? Anything to add?"

Etienne Bouvier, the Acting Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of Canada, stands up. "Thank you, Mister Chairman. Nothing to add."

As he sits back down, Abernathy says, "Believe me, gentlemen, no one wants a Chief Executive more than I. Running a country by committee is exhausting work! We've known of your concerns for quiet some time, and you'll be happy to know that we've taken positive steps in remedying this dilemma."

"However," Abernathy continues, "I must take exception with your characterization of our current government as one that is 'less' than legitimate - more so in view of the fact that you gentlemen affix 'Acting' and 'Interim' to your own titles.

"Mister Abernathy," Acting President Salazar says, "You yourself are aware that, in these unsettled and even chaotic times, that it has been virtually impossible to even consider holding open elections. Both my government and the Canadian government have been forced to take measures that, although not adhering to strict principles of a democracy, at least have not abandoned the offices of President and Prime Minister."

"I'm glad you understand the issue that we all face, Mister President," Abernathy says with a smile. "And please understand that it was not our intention to ever 'abandon' the office of President. It was necessary to govern by committee until a suitable candidate could be found that was willing to assume the responsibilities of the office. And, I am pleased to be able to announce that such a candidate has, indeed, stepped forward and has been selected by special election by both the residents of the Cheyenne Mountain Security Zone as well as Colorado Springs and the surrounding area - and the election results have been certified and approved by the remaining justices of the United States Supreme Court."

Etienne Bouvier glances quickly at Alejandro Salazar before speaking. "Mister Abernathy, are we to understand that you now have a President?"

"We do, Mister Prime Minister," Abernathy replies. "In fact, he defeated me in the election. He was sworn into office earlier today." Abernathy presses a button on the table. "We're ready, Dan."

A door opens at the far end of the conference room. Dan Crane steps in and announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, Major General J.C. Phillips."

* * *

Julius Caesar (J.C.) Phillips, Major General, United States Army, former Commanding General of the Third Motorized Infantry Division (Heavy)(Reinforced), now the newly elected President of the United States, strides into the conference room.

President Phillips, at the age of forty-two, had been one of the youngest general officers to serve as a Division Commanding General in the history of the United States Army. He is a highly decorated and well respected officer. And, assuming his new role as President of the United States and Commander in Chief of the military, inwardly he's scared to death.

_How the hell did I let myself get talked into this?_  He asks himself for the hundredth time. He quickly scans the room, noting both the familiar and unfamiliar faces.  _I'm a soldier, not a fucking politician!_  He fixes what he hopes is a confident smile as he approaches the conference table, extending his hand to the nearest of the two men - his counterparts - as he does so.

"Mister President," he says warmly, "It's a pleasure. J.C. Phillips." Alejandro Salazar takes his hand and shakes it firmly.

"The pleasure is mine, Mister President," Salazar says, his eyes flitting over the uniformed man standing before him.  _And why is he wearing a uniform still?_

"And Mister Prime Minister," Phillips says, grasping the Canadians' hand. "A pleasure, sir."

"Likewise, Mister President," Bouvier replies.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Abernathy says, breaking in, "Please take your seats. I can see that there are many questions that need to be answered."

Once everyone was seated again, Phillip Abernathy begins to speak. "Mister President - Mister Prime Minister. Your governments weren't the only ones that had misgivings regarding our legitimacy. Our own people questioned the authority of a committee to issue orders that could affect their lives. Now, in a perfect world, we would have had a true national election - but, as you know, that is currently impossible given the fragmented nature of our communications infrastructure. Rest assured that we will have a true national election just as soon as possible."

"I have a question," Etienne Bouvier says, glancing at Phillips. "Mister President, why are you in uniform?"

"Because I am still Commanding General of the Third Motorized Infantry Division, Mister Prime Minister," Phillips replies calmly.

Salazar and Bouvier exchange alarmed looks. "Gentlemen, please allow me to explain," Phillips says. "I can't be relieved of my command except by competent authority. That authority rests with the President of the United States - but I can't relieve myself. Once, Secretary Paylor could have relieved me - except that her cabinet position as Secretary of Defense was merged into the Governance Committee, along with Secretary Abernathy's position as Secretary of State and Secretary Cresta's position as Secretary of Homeland Security. And the committee did not grant themselves the authority to appoint or relieve commanders of major commands. I could be relieved by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, or by the Army Chief of Staff - but both of those positions have been unoccupied since last winter, when both the Chairman and the Army Chief succumbed to complications from the Rocky Mountain Flu."

"So I'm stuck," Phillips says, spreading his arms out in front of him, "Stuck wearing two hats. Until, of course,  _someone_ else is elected to this office, and I can resume being the simple soldier that I am."

Salazar and Bouvier join in the dutiful laughter that follows, but deep inside, both men had grave misgivings about a United States President that also personally commanded the single largest surviving combat unit in the Western Hemisphere.

* * *

Dan Crane looks up from his PADD. "That concludes our business for today, Mister President."

"Thank you, Dan," J.C. Phillips says, standing up. "We'll resume tomorrow morning at zero eight - I mean, eight o'clock. Mister President, Mister Prime Minister - this way, please."

The three men, trailed by aides and staff, exit the executive conference room and head to the Presidential Suite. As they walk, Alejandro Salazar voices the question that has been sitting in the back of his mind all day.

"I hope you don't mind, J.C.," Salazar begins, "But I have a rather personal question for you."

Phillips laughs. "Let me guess, Alejandro. My name."

"You have to admit, it is unusual," Salazar says.

"I am a fifth generation Army officer," Phillips says, "And the fourth to achieve General's rank. My father said that I was ordained for greatness at birth. He always said that 'I gave you a leaders name. Never dishonor it.' I've lived by those words ever since. And, off the record, I  _hate_  being called Julius!"

"J.C. it is, then!" Salazar says with a laugh.

**CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX - EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM - PAN AMERICAN SUMMIT, DAY TWO - LATE JUNE, 2071**

"Mister Crane - Miss Dalton. You have the floor," President J.C. Phillips says, leaning back in his chair.

"Thank you, Mister President," Dan Crane says, as he and Amanda Dalton move to the front of the conference room. "I'll be deferring to my colleague, Miss Amanda Dalton, for this portion of the summit. Amanda?"

"Thank you, Dan," Amanda Dalton says with a smile. "Mister President - Mister Salazar - Mister Bouvier. Yesterday you were given an overview of what we  _could_  do. We're beginning to have success in re-establishing a comprehensive rail network. We can once again begin to move goods from one area to another. Mister Bouvier, did you have a chance to consult with your staff regarding rail crossings?"

"I did, Miss Dalton," Bouvier replies. "We have two that are feasible, depending on what it is you intend to support. The first comes up into Manitoba towards what used to be Winnipeg, and the second comes into Ontario near Fort Frances. This one would be better suited for rail traffic into Quebec."

"Excellent, sir." Amanda consults her PADD. "And, Mister Salazar, you've indicated Nuevo Laredo as the best rail crossing?"

"Yes, that's correct, Miss Dalton," Salazar replies.

"Thank you, sir," Amanda says, then pauses for a moment before continuing. "Mister President - ladies and gentlemen - the proposal that Dan and I have brought here today, and that I am about to present to you, is extremely radical. It will most likely meet with tremendous resistance. But, we both feel that it's the only workable solution to our dilemma. And if we fail to act  _now_ , in five years the damage will be irreversible. And, what we now know as Canada, Mexico, and the United States will cease to exist."

"What we are speaking of here today," Amanda continues, "Is economics and economic cooperation. Take a look at this map." She taps a control on her PADD and a map flashes up on the view screen. "This map is the most current that we have. You'll notice that it bears little resemblance to the North America that we are accustomed to."

"Here's the quandary that we find ourselves in," Amanda says. "In order for this fragmented economy to survive, we need  _full_  cooperation from everyone. So, here is Proposal Number One." Amanda taps a command into her PADD and a series of border lines appears on the projected map.

"States and state lines, as we knew them, are a thing of the past," she explains to muted gasps, "As are International borders. Instead, Dan and I, along with the rest of our economic team, have divided what's left of North America into fourteen distinct areas - we refer to them as Relief Districts. They, and the major metropolitan areas that each district is centered around, are as follows." As she speaks, each area lights up on the map.

"Relief District One - Las Vegas."

"Relief District Two - Albuquerque."

"Relief District Three - Salt Lake City."

"Relief District Four - Little Rock/Pine Bluff."

"Relief District Five - Omaha."

"Relief District Six - Detroit."

"Relief District Seven - Spokane."

"Relief District Eight - Indianapolis."

"Relief District Nine - Duluth."

"Relief District Ten - Dallas/Fort Worth."

"Relief District Eleven - Atlanta."

"Relief District Twelve - Pittsburgh/Bethel Park."

"Relief District Thirteen - Mont-Laurier"

"Capitol Relief District - Colorado Springs/Cheyenne Mountain"

Amanda glances up. "Questions?" she asks.

Alejandro Salazar stands up. "How does Mexico fit into this plan of yours, Miss Dalton?"

Amanda regards the Mexican President calmly. "What's left of Mexico will be assimilated into Relief Districts One, Two, and Ten, Mister President. Mister Bouvier?"

"Same question, Miss Dalton. Where does Canada fit in?"

"Relief Districts Nine and Thirteen, Mister Prime Minister. Ladies and Gentlemen, on the face of it, I'm sure this looks very disorienting, and even upsetting. But economically, it's really our only option. We  _must_  do this if we are to survive!" Amanda says emphatically.

Etienne Bouvier stands, his face twisted in barely controlled rage. "Do you mean to say, Miss Dalton, that President Salazar and I have come all this way to be informed by your government that we are to simply be 'assimilated' by the United States?!"

"No, sir, it's not like that at all," Amanda replies calmly. "Because the 'United States' will no longer exist."

* * *

"Miss Dalton, could you repeat that last statement?" Phillips asks. "Because I could swear I just heard you say that the United States will no longer exist."

"Mister President, it  _can't_ ," Amanda says passionately. "If we are not only to survive, but thrive, we  _have_ to change."

J.C. Phillips leans back in his chair and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Okay," he finally says, "Let's hear it."

"There are two keys to this plan working initially," Amanda says, tapping her PADD. She illuminates two areas. "Relief District Five - Power. The Fusion Complex is operational, but their ability to transmit power is limited. And Relief District Six - Transportation. So far the rail network exists only between here and Six - but that will change rapidly,  _if_  it's prioritized."

"Go on," Phillips says thoughtfully.

"Relief District One contains over ninety percent of the operational precious metals mines left on the continent. These metals are not only used for commerce, but in advanced electronics as well. They can supply us with all our needs - but they need power, food, clothing, and building supplies."

"Relief District Two has active, operational stone quarries. Until we can get factories up and running to produce synthetic building materials, we will have to return to natural sources. In addition, they have the majority of operational military bases left on the continent outside of Cheyenne Mountain. But again, they need power, food, et cetera."

"Three has the most advanced data processing and electronics facilities left, ever since the Impact Tsunamis destroyed the hotbeds of this technology in Silicon Valley and Seattle. Four has the altered coastline and an abundance of harvestable marine life. Seven has the only surviving lumber and paper mills. Eight has the bulk of textile manufacturing. Nine is perfectly suited for the new  _tesserae_ grain as well as other grains such as corn and barley. Ten has vast cattle and sheep ranches. Eleven has vast fields producing cotton, lettuce, root vegetables, and orchards of every kind. Twelve has untapped coal deposits, which can be used to fuel secondary electric power plants, spur line railroads, and an alternate heating source for our unpredictable winters. Thirteen has - well, the only surviving stockpile of nuclear weapons outside of the Security Zone, as well as a large graphite mining operation."

Amanda pauses and looks around the room. "Don't you  _see_? We need the trains and, eventually, heavy lift hoverplanes that Six will provide - but  _they_  need food, shelter, power, and clothing. Five can provide the power for everyone - but  _they_  need food, shelter, clothing, and transportation.  _Every_  Relief District  _needs_  what the others can provide - and the only way for this system to work is if  _every_  Relief District cooperates fully with the others - and with us."

Elliott Heavensbee stands and speaks for the first time. "Sounds like socialism to me," he grumbles. "Oh - excuse me, Mister President. Gentlemen. Elliott Heavensbee, member of the Capitol Council."

"Thank you for your input, Doctor Heavensbee," Dan Crane says quickly. "Amanda, please continue."

"You're right, Doctor Heavensbee," Amanda says. "It  _is_  a form of socialism. But, as an economist, from where I sit - it's our only option. That or degenerate into a dozen or so feudal city-states - which is where we will be in as little as five years if  _we don't change._ "

"So, Miss Dalton, what do you call this system anyway?" Phillips asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Amanda taps a command into her PADD. "This, Mister President."

The map on the view screen disappears, replaced by five words:

**Pan American National Economic Movement**

"The old United States, Canada, and Mexico will be simply known collectively as Pan America," Amanda explains. "If these reforms are successful, it will usher in an era of peace and mutual cooperation that this world has never seen."

**PRESIDENTIAL SUITE - CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX - EVENING OF PAN AMERICAN SUMMIT, DAY TWO - LATE JUNE, 2071**

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Etienne Bouvier says softly, slurring just a bit from the effects of the alcohol that he has consumed, "But this whole Pan America proposal actually makes sense."

"I didn't want to admit it before," Alejandro Salazar says, quickly downing the remainder of his drink, "But the Dalton woman is right. We're dying on the vine. We've suffered close to a year of hardship the likes we've never seen before. This looks like a way to pull us all out and back on track to growth and prosperity."

"Alejandro. Etienne." J.C. Phillips says, carefully pouring them all a fresh drink. "You're both career public servants. I, on the other hand, am but a simple soldier, thrust into a job that I never sought nor wanted. That being said - if our three countries do merge - who's gonna be in charge?"

"I take it that you aren't a proponent of governing by committee," Bouvier says.

"Not in the least," Phillips replies with a snort.

Salazar takes a small sip of his drink. "You know," he says conversationally, "none of us wanted public office. Look at us. Two career bureaucrats and a career soldier. Yet, here we are. Leaders of three fragmented governments. The three of us can't afford to think months or a year or two in advance - we have to think in terms of decades...or longer."

"There's only one logical solution to the issue of governance," Salazar continues. "J.C., you have the lion's share of available resources. I think I can speak for Etienne when I say this - good luck and Godspeed to Julius Caesar Phillips, the last President of the United States - and the first President of Pan America!"

"Hear, hear!" Bouvier says while applauding enthusiastically.

Phillips looks grim. "I'll do it," he grumbles. "But I won't like it. And as for you two - I think I'll make it my first order of business to appoint Alejandro Salazar as Governor of Relief District Ten, and Etienne Bouvier Governor of Relief District Thirteen!"

"I accept under the condition that you remove those damn nukes from Mont-Laurier!" Bouvier says emphatically.

"Funny you should mention those, Etienne," Phillips replies. "I had a lengthy conversation with Major Holmes, the Marine commander in Mont-Laurier. He's abrasive as all hell, but he knows his stuff when it comes to the care and transport of nuclear weapons...and right now, we just don't have the means to get them back under our control safely. But rest assured, it is my top priority!"

"And how many top priorities do you have, Mister President?" Bouvier says with a smile.

"About fifty," Phillips replies glumly, before draining his glass in a single gulp.

* * *

"You need to relax, J.C.," Susanna Snow says, massaging J.C. Phillips' tight shoulder muscles.

"Easier said than done, Major," Phillips replies with a grunt that was half pain and half pleasure.

"'Major?'" Susanna repeats with a laugh. "So formal, 'Mister President!'"

Phillips twists around, grabbing Susanna firmly around her waist. "Show some respect, woman!" He says playfully. "After all, you  _are_  speaking to the first President of Pan America!"

"That sounds so strange," Susanna says, shivering as Phillips' fingers gently trace up her bare back. "'Pan America.' Will things ever return to normal?"

"Not in our lifetime, Susanna," Phillips replies. "You of all people should understand that."

Susanna sighs heavily. "I know. But it's somehow different when the reality of how much things have changed actually hits you. When you realize that, with a stroke of a pen, that tomorrow, for all intents and purposes, the United States of America will cease to exist."

"America is still here," Phillips says gently. "An America that's been forced to adapt or die. Well, America  _will not_  die on my watch!"

Susanna smiles, her own hands beginning their gentle caress of her lovers' back. "I knew you were something special, General," she breathes. "From that first briefing when we sent in our intel team to Paris and Benton last year. I could see it then. You are so unlike every other General I've ever met."

"I meant everything I said, Susie," Phillips says, shivering a bit in response to Susanna's fingers on his back. "America will not only survive, it will  _thrive_! And this 'National Economic Movement' is the answer. Each Relief District supporting the others, and in turn being supported by the others. We won't see it, Susie - not in our lifetimes. But in a hundred years people will say 'what comet?'"

"And we'll be the ones to lay the foundation," Susanna says, nuzzling Phillips' neck.

"There's good people here, Susie," Phillips replies, sliding his hands down Susanna's hips. "You uppermost among them. But there's two more I want to bring on my team, after we get Bouvier and Salazar home. Your brother and Lieutenant Wise. I'm making them my aides."

"J.C., they'll be thrilled and honored!" Susanna says enthusiastically. "My brother - well, he's grown a good deal over the last year. And Jamie Wise...she's incredibly intelligent and is a fantastic leader. They'll both serve you well!"

"That's why I want them on my team," Phillips says, pulling Susanna close. "Now enough shop talk." Whatever Susanna was about to say was stifled by the lips of J.C. Phillips pressing firmly against her own.

_And the real reason why I want those two as my aides,_  Phillips says to himself as their kiss deepens,  _is because I don't trust either one of them. The Snow kid is too shifty and slick for his own good, and Wise is too sensitive to be trusted to remain in the field with troops. Pity - she's a damn good soldier. But it has to be done. What's that old saying? "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."_

* * *

Afterwards, as they lay basking in their mutual afterglow of pleasure, Phillips says softly, "It's too long."

Susanna chuckles and cuddles closer. "I thought it was just right," she says with a smile.

"Not  _that,_  woman!" Phillips says with a smile. "The name. It's too long."

"What name?" Susanna asks, raising herself up on one elbow.

"This economic idea," Phillips explains. "I need to address all of the Relief Districts and I want to sell them on this idea, but I can't keep referring to it as the 'Pan American National Economic Movement!' I want to get people's attention, not put them to sleep!"

"Hmmmm," Susanna muses. "The military is big on acronyms and abbreviations, J.C. Why not shorten it? Use just the first letter of each word when you talk about it?"

"You mean something like P.A.N.E.M?" Phillips snorts. "That's as clumsy as saying the whole thing!"

"Not like that," Susanna says gently. "I mean, make it a word, like this." She pauses for a moment, then says:

"PANEM."

"Panem," Phillips says. "Panem. I like it. Short - descriptive - recognizable. In other words, perfect." He says it one last time for good measure.

"Panem."


	24. JOURNEY'S END

**CHAPTER 24 - JOURNEY'S END**

**PROLOGUE - LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY - LATE JANUARY, 2071**

_Raquel Donner lies in bed, clutching the blanket around her tightly as a new spasm clenches her belly. She barely manages to roll over to the side of the bed before the meager contents of her stomach erupt from her mouth into the soiled bucket next to the bed._

_Her best friend and roommate for the last six-plus months, Michelle, gazes at her friend, concern written on her face. "That's it," she says. "I'm getting the doctor again."_

_"Shel, no," Raquel says weakly. "You heard what he said the last time. Nothing he can do. This flu just has to run its course."_

_"Raquel, look at you!" Her friend gestures toward the bucket. "You haven't been able to keep a thing down for a week! Do you think I'm gonna just stand by and watch my best friend puke herself to death?"_

_"That's_ exactly _what I want you to do, Shel," Raquel replies emphatically. "Under no circumstances are you to get the police, fire or paramedics involved. Word'll get to the Vigilance Committee and the next thing you know I'll be 'euthanized' as part of one of their 'Health Sweeps!'" Raquel smiles weakly at her friend. "Don't worry about me. I think the worst is behind me now."_

_Michelle sits on the edge of the bed. The room is fitfully illuminated by a single sputtering candle. She reaches forward and grasps her friends hand._

_"You should have gotten out in July, before all this shit started," Michelle says gently._

_"Shel, you and I, we_ grew up _here!" Raquel replies. "We knew the town, we knew the people - at least we_ thought _we knew the people - and Frank said that Colorado Springs would be a madhouse after Impact. And he was right. No one could've predicted all this!"_

_As if on cue, a staccato burst of gunfire punctuated Raquel's last statement, followed by the sounds of shouting, screaming, and breaking glass. Although the sounds were several blocks away, both women still jumped at the sounds. Michelle rests her hand lightly on the butt of the pistol riding in a holster on her right hip, while Raquel glances at another pistol sitting in easy arm's reach on the nightstand next to her bed._

_"At least you heard from Frank," Michelle says. "And Arkansas is practically next door! You'll see him before you know it!"_

_Raquel smiles at her friend sadly. "Not for months, I won't," she replies. "He's wintering over in Pine Bluff. The whole country is at a standstill. Between the blizzards and the epidemics no one can move anywhere or do anything. Besides, I'm not waiting for him to come to me."_

_"What're you saying, Raquel?" Michelle asks in alarm._

_"What I'm saying is that I'm gonna do what I need to do, and that's get the hell out of Louisville as soon as I'm able," Raquel replies firmly. "The Vigilance Committee is terrorizing the whole city under the guise of 'keeping law and order!' If Frank and his friends come here they'll get sucked into this mess! No, Michelle, I need to meet him outside Louisville. I can't let him or the others come into the city."_

_"Raquel, you...you can't," Michelle says plaintively. "You don't even know which way he'll be coming! And you aren't in any condition to go wandering around the country!"_

_Raquel smiles at her friend. "I know that he and the others will have to wait for winter to pass," she says reasonably. "And he'll be headed here - to Louisville - to look for me. I'll backtrack - follow the same route he'll have to take. Maybe wait for him at one of the river crossings. A big one, like the Mississippi. Only a handful of places to cross that nowadays."_

_Michelle's eyes fill with tears. "I'll never see you again if you go."_

_Raquel sits up with effort, pulling her friend into an embrace. "Hey, hey now," she murmurs, "I ain't gone yet. And you_ can _come with me, you know!"_

_Michelle shakes her head. "I gotta stay here in case Troy comes back."_

_"Oh, honey," Raquel says. "Troy's been gone since August._ _He had plenty of time to get to Paris and back. Maybe...maybe you should consider that, just maybe, something happened."_

_"NO!" Michelle shouts. "He's comin' back, Raquel! The whole country's crazy, you know that!"_

_"Okay, okay, honey," Raquel says, fighting off a new wave of dizziness as she hugs her friend. She swallows heavily. "Oh, shit not again..."_

_She makes the bucket. Just barely._

* * *

_Later that night, as Michelle tosses restlessly in a fitful sleep, Raquel's resolve to leave stiffens._ Weather's supposed to start clearing in April,  _she says to herself._ Three months. I gotta hold out for three more months. But what am I gonna do with Shel?

**INTERSTATE FIFTY-FIVE FERRY - MISSISSIPPI RIVER - LATE MAY, 2071**

"So I waited on the far side for a few days, checking every single person that came off this ferry, scared to death that I'd missed you somehow." Raquel Donner clings tightly to her husband. "It was only this morning that I'd decided to cross over."

"You shoulda stayed put, baby," Frank Donner says to his wife, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. "We woulda come and gotten you."

"Oh, Frank," Raquel replies. "Gettin'  _in_  to Louisville ain't the problem. Gettin' back  _out_  is!"

"Missus Donner," Jack Hawthorne says, "Your story is, unfortunately, a familiar one to all of us. You had mentioned your friend's husband went to Paris to get his parents?"

"It's Raquel, Doctor Hawthorne," Raquel says, "and yes, Troy did go to Paris, Texas, to bring his parents back to Louisville."

Frank and Jack exchange pointed looks. "Frank? What's going on?" Raquel asks.

"It's about Paris, honey," Frank says.

"What about Paris?" Raquel asks.

"Ain't there no more," a man standing nearby says. Weather-beaten and missing teeth, he could be anywhere from thirty to sixty. He casually leans over the rail of the ferry and spits into the river.

"What - what do you mean?" Raquel asks.

"Guv'mint bombed it a couple weeks ago," the man says, spitting into the river again. "Nuked it. I saw the fireball myself and I was thirty klicks away."

"What?" Raquel asks in a horrified tone. "Why?"

"Honey, we passed through there," Frank replies. Quickly he recounts the ordeal that the travelers had faced in Paris, Texas. "If Troy was still there he was probably killed in the bombing - assumin' he was still alive to begin with."

Raquel sinks to the deck of the ferry. Staring out at the river, she finally says, "Thank God Shel didn't come with us. She'd be throwin' herself into the river right about now. Her hopin' that Troy is comin' home is the only thing keepin' her goin'."

Frank kneels down next to her. "She's gonna find out sooner or later. Michelle's a strong woman. And she has to suspect that something's happened to Troy. She'll find a way to deal with it."

Raquel stares off in the distance for a moment. "I doubt it," she whispers.

* * *

"Been a while since I've been on a bike," Raquel says as she takes a few practice turns around the largely empty parking lot. The bike had definitely seen better days, but it did come with saddlebags. Try as they might, though, they couldn't find a bike trailer for it.

"Hope she's worth it," PJ Abernathy mutters under his breath to Morgan Boggs. "We won't be able to replace what we had to trade for that piece of shit bike she's riding."

"Can it, PJ!" Boggs whispers sharply. "At least  _you're_  almost home! And I hope you don't let Frank hear that shit!"

PJ just mutters something unintelligible in response.

"We'll head out in an hour," Jack says to Frank, Henry Mitchell, and Tom Jackson. "Frank, that should give Raquel enough time to get used to her bike." Jack glances at the sun, still mostly obscured by clouds. "With luck, we'll be able to make Jackson by nightfall."

"Jack," Tom says softly, "Henry, Boggsy and I have been talking with the Cartwrights. About pushing on after Pennsylvania."

"I kinda figured that's what you were gonna do, Tom," Jack replies with a smile.

"Yeah, well, we wanted you to know that PJ's a minority of one here," Tom says. "We all think you've done a helluva job getting this crew as far as we've come."

"Jack," Henry adds, "Not one of us expected that this trip was gonna be smooth sailing. I think that all of knew in the back of our minds that someone was probably gonna die on the road. It's a damn shame about Nev and Elise, but to be honest I expected that maybe half of us were gonna die out here."

"Really?" Jack says incredulously. "Then why did you two come if you thought it was gonna be  _that_  dangerous?"

"From everything we've seen, it looks as though our fears about Cheyenne Mountain were justified," Tom says. "Henry and I, we talked with some of the other passengers on the ferry. Lots of rumors flying around after the Paris and Benton bombings. Talk about some sort of merger with what's left of Canada and Mexico. Maybe even a military coup."

"What we're trying to say, Jack, is that we think that we all made the right decision in leaving," Henry says.

Jack sighs heavily. "I keep telling myself that every day."

* * *

"Alright, PJ, head on out!" Jack calls out. PJ Abernathy glances behind him, catches Jack's eye briefly, and waves once. "Let's get mounted up, everyone," Jack says to the rest as PJ begins to pedal.

_Can't afford to think about Victoria and Vic just yet,_  he says to himself.  _Stay focused. Today's goal is Jackson, Tennessee._

Jack allows himself just one more thought as he concentrates on the task of putting kilometers behind him.

_Once I get to Bethel Park, I never want to see a fuckin' bicycle ever again!_

**U.S. HIGHWAY NINETEEN CHECKPOINT - JUST WEST OF BETHEL PARK, PENNSYLVANIA - MID JUNE, 2071**

Riding about a hundred meters behind PJ Abernathy, Jack Hawthorne sees the younger man stop his bike abruptly, then turn, hold up one finger, and wave Jack forward.

_What now?_  Jack pedals forward slowly. They were almost there! Why is PJ stopping now?

Jack's eyes narrow as he sees the reason for PJ's stop. A roadblock, stretching across the entire highway. Even at a distance, Jack can see several armed men and women at the roadblock.

Jack surveys the roadblock silently for a few moments, then turns to PJ. Silently he hands his pistol and rifle to the younger man.

"You can't be serious," PJ says as he accepts the weapons. "What if they ain't so friendly?"

"Then I'll be dead long before I could pull my pistol or unsling my rifle," Jack replies grimly. "This is the end of the line for us, PJ. I don't want their first impression of us to be the wrong one. Besides, they don't look very agitated to me...in fact they look almost bored with the whole thing."

Before PJ can say anything else, Jack turns and strides purposefully toward the roadblock. The men and women there watch him carefully as he approaches. One steps forward a few paces - a young man in his late teens. When Jack is a few meters away the young man almost casually puts up one hand.

"That's far enough," he says in a conversational tone. "What can I do for you?"

Jack stops dead in his tracks. "I...I mean, we." Jack gestures behind him. "We've come a long way. From Colorado. Name's Hawthorne. Jack Hawthorne."

The young man's eyes narrow at the sound of Jack's name. " _Doctor_  Jack Hawthorne?" He asks.

"That's right," Jack replies. "My wife and son - they're supposed to be here. Staying with the Everdeens."

The young man half turns to a girl standing close behind him, never taking one eye off Jack. "Get my dad," he orders.

"You got it, Tim," the girl replies. She steps over to one of the car bodies that have been rolled into place as the roadblock and pulls out a black plastic case. From the case she extracts a large, clumsy looking telephone. While Jack watches, she rhythmically pumps a wedge-shaped handle on one side of the phone then holds it to her ear. Jack can see wires trailing away from the base of the phone. The girl turns her back on Jack and the young man she addressed as Tim and talks quietly and rapidly into the phone. After a minute or so she carefully replaces the phone in its case and turns back toward Jack and Tim.

"He's on his way, Tim," the girl says.

"Thanks, Jen," Tim replies, then turns back to Jack, extending his hand. "I'm Tim Undersee. My dad's Chief of Police here."

"Nice to meet you, Tim," Jack replies, shaking the younger man's hand warmly. "So you were told to look out for us?"

"Yeah," Tim says. "Had no idea when - or if - you'd even show up here."

"It was - difficult at times," Jack admits.

"How many are with you?" Tim asks.

"Eleven, including myself," Jack replies.

"Eleven," Tim repeats softly. "We heard there were some deaths. Bet you're glad to be at the end of your road."

"You don't know the half of it," Jack replies with a laugh. "But three of us will be continuing on. They have family in New York and New England that they want to find."

Tim frowns at this revelation. "Something wrong?" Jack asks.

"It's rough up North," Tim says. "Not sure how much luck your friends will have finding their families."

Before Jack could ask Tim to elaborate, a car - somewhat battered but, from the sound of its engine, still in good running order - pulls up behind the roadblock.

Tim glances back at the car. "My dad," he says by way of explanation. As Jack watches, a stocky, blonde haired man exits the car and quickly walks up to the roadblock. As he draws nearer, Jack can see a badge pinned to the windbreaker that the man is wearing.

The man stops in front of Jack and Tim. "Dad, this is Doctor Jack Hawthorne," Tim says. "Doctor Hawthorne, my dad, Chief Paul Undersee."

The blonde man extends his hand. "A pleasure to finally meet you at last, Doctor," he says with a grin. "To be honest, we weren't at all sure if you were ever gonna get here. Paul Undersee, Bethel Park Chief of Police."

Jack grips Undersee's hand firmly. "Truthfully, I had my doubts at times as well," he says as the two men shake hands. "And you can drop the 'doctor,' Chief. It's just Jack."

"And I'm Paul," Undersee says. He peers past Jack to the other travelers gathered in the road. "Pretty large party. Can't fit you all in my car," he says with a grin, then turns to his son. "Tim, you got your bike out here?"

"Right over there, Dad," Tim replies, pointing.

Paul Undersee hands his son the keys to his car. "I'm taking your bike. I'll be at the Everdeen house. Don't forget to come get me after you get off shift here."

Tim takes the keys, slipping them quickly into his pocket. "I won't," he says assuredly.

Paul claps his son on the shoulder, then turns and walks over to Tim's bike. Mounting it awkwardly, he turns to Jack. "You and your group can follow me. Probably easier if I was on a bike also."

"Sounds good," Jack says, turning back to the other travelers and making a circling motion over his head with his right hand. The others immediately mount their bikes and begin to ride toward the roadblock.

"Where are we going?" Jack asks. "You said something about the Evergreen house?"

" _Everdeen,_  Jack," Paul corrects him with a grin. "As in Senator Michael Everdeen and his family. Your wife and son have been living with them since Impact Day."

Jack falls in next to Paul as the group slowly pedals into Bethel Park, Pennsylvania. Jack can feel his stomach knotting up with excitement.

_It's been almost a year since I've seen Victoria or Vic! God, I've missed them both!_

**THE EVERDEEN HOUSE - BETHEL PARK, PENNSYLVANIA - MID JUNE, 2071**

Victoria Hawthorne pauses for a moment, awkwardly wiping her face on her right shoulder, then dips her hands once again into the hot, soapy water in the large washtub. She grabs onto the shirt that she had been washing and once again proceeds to rub it vigorously against the corrugated surface of a wooden washboard. After another minute or two, she pulls the garment from the tub, holds it up while she examines it closely, then tosses it into another tub filled with clean water, then reaches into her tub for the next dirty shirt.

Charlotte Everdeen, working at the rinse tub, holds the shirt under water while twisting and wringing it thoroughly. She holds it up, dunks it again, and repeats. Satisfied, she tosses the shirt into a third tub, where her daughter Nicole takes it, dunks it under water, wrings it out, dunks it again, then runs it through a hand wringer, turning the crank as the water drips back into the tub. She hands the shirt to her brother, Mike Junior, who carefully hangs it up on a clothesline.

It was a slow, tedious process. "I swear, I will  _never_  take electricity for granted again!" Victoria says as she tosses another shirt into Charlotte's tub.

Charlotte turns and smiles at her friend. Victoria and her son Vic had been living with the Everdeens for almost a year. During that time, Charlotte and Victoria had become the best of friends, while Vic Hawthorne and Nicole Everdeen had become close in a different way. It was no secret that they preferred each others' company, and more than once had been caught by both Charlotte and Victoria in what Charlotte euphemistically described as "a near-compromising position," prompting both parents to have what Vic and Nicole referred to as "the sex talk."

Charlotte glances at her daughter and smiles fondly.  _The talks must have worked,_  she says to herself,  _at least for now. No unwanted babies - yet._

"Mom?" Charlotte glances over her shoulder to see her youngest son, Will, standing at the back door. "Chief Undersee is at the door. Said he needs to see you and Victoria."

"Okay, Will," Charlotte replies. "Tell him we'll be right there." Charlotte stands up as Victoria asks, "What could Paul need both of us for?"

"Guess we'll find out," Charlotte says as the two women dry their hands, then enter the house.

Both women can see a large group of people milling around in the spacious living room. Charlotte spies Paul Undersee talking with one of the men - a bearded, thin, olive skinned man.

"Paul?" Charlotte calls out as she and Victoria enter the living room. "Is everything alright?"

Paul Undersee and the bearded man stop talking and turn at the sound of Charlotte's voice. "Everything's fine, Charlotte," Paul replies. At the same instant Charlotte hears Victoria gasp audibly as the bearded man steps forward and utters a single word.

"Vicky."

"Oh my  _God,"_ Victoria Hawthorne says, her voice almost a whisper. "It's you. It's really  _you!_  And you're so  _thin!_ "

Victoria flies into the bearded mans' arms, and, as they both laugh and cry simultaneously, hugging and kissing each other, Charlotte suddenly realizes that this bearded scarecrow is none other than Doctor Jack Hawthorne.

Charlotte glances quickly at a grinning Paul Undersee, then back to her youngest son. "Will, where's Vic?" she asks.

"I think he's out at the old mine, with Dad," Will replies. "Mom, is that Doctor Hawthorne?"

"Yes," Charlotte replies in a choked voice. "Can you go fetch your father and Vic for me?"

"Sure," Will replies. He pauses at the door and calls out, "I'll be right back!"

Charlotte turns back to see Jack and Victoria standing in front of her. "Charlotte, I'd like you to meet my husband. Jack, this is Charlotte Everdeen - our host and my best friend."

Jack extends his hand with a smile. "A real pleasure to meet you, Charlotte."

Charlotte takes his hand, then surprises him by pulling him into an embrace. "The pleasure's all mine, Jack - and I'm afraid a handshake just won't do."

* * *

"Jack, I have to say, the trials that you and the others went through to get here were phenomenal, to say the least," Senator Michael Everdeen says, raising a glass dark with whiskey in Jack's direction.

Jack takes a swallow of his own whiskey before replying. "I have to admit, Mike, that there were plenty of times that I - we - didn't think we would make it." As he speaks, his other arm tightens around Victoria's shoulders as she snuggles in close to him.

"Well, you're here, and that's all that really matters," Everdeen says. "And I am sorry that I'm not able to put all of you up here. We just don't have the room."

"Senator, you've been more than kind," Henry Mitchell says. "And thank you for the information about New York and New England." He pauses for a moment, staring down at his own drink. "Speaking for myself, I'd rather know before I went that looking for my wife would be an exercise in futility."

"I understand," Everdeen says. "I wish I had good news to tell you - but we've talked to a lot of people out of the New York and New England area. None of the news was good. That whole area was hit very hard last winter with both blizzards and epidemics. We haven't had any sort of radio or teletype contact with anyone from either region for over five months. And the areas that you mentioned - Syracuse, Rochester, and Albany, New York, as well as Montpelier, Vermont - were all ravaged by epidemics. More so than most places. The choice is yours, of course, to go and see for yourselves - I just don't think you'll like what you find there."

The room falls silent. Jack looks at his friends and traveling companions sadly.  _To come all this way,_  he says to himself,  _only to find that the whole trip was futile. Tom, Henry, Boggsy, and the Cartwrights just had all the air sucked out of them._

"You are, of course, welcome to stay on here," Paul Undersee says. "After what happened to Pittsburgh last winter, Cheyenne Mountain has pretty much concentrated their focus on us. We hear that we may even see freight trains running in carrying supplies. There will be plenty of work for everyone."

"Thank you, Paul," Morgan Boggs says, his rich, deep voice seemingly filling the room. "We'll certainly consider your kind offer."

"Mike, tell us more about this economic plan that Cheyenne Mountain sent you," Jack says, trying to change the subject.

Michael Everdeen sighs, then takes a swallow of his drink. "I guess it can be best described as a 'mutual aid' economy. Each area - they call them 'Relief Districts,' by the way - we're being referred to as 'Relief District Twelve - specializes in a specific industry - power, agriculture, livestock, et cetera - with the idea that all of these industries mutually support each other." Everdeen pauses again. "We've been tasked with providing coal. That's why I was at the old mine today with Vic - he's become my right hand man around here, you know."

Jack glances at his son, sitting on a loveseat across from his parents, his arm draped protectively - or was it possessively? - around Nicole Everdeen's shoulders, and smiles. His son meets his gaze and gives him a small grin in return.  _God, he's grown up in the last year. And he seems to be quite close with the Everdeen girl._

"The problem is this," Michael Everdeen continues. "There's no one alive around here that knows the first thing about mining coal, or anything else for that matter. This mine has been closed since the last century. What we need is a geologist."

Jack turns to Frank Donner and grins. "Frank, know anyone that might be able to help out?"

Frank Donner sits up, first glancing at his wife before turning back to Michael Everdeen. "Senator, I'm your man. I'm a - I  _was_  - a United States Geological Survey Geologist. Can't go home - the Louisville I knew don't exist no more. Now, I don't know a lot about mining, but I'll be glad to help any way I can. So if you need me..."

Everdeen grins. "Doctor Donner, I was hoping you'd volunteer," he says. "Of course, I knew of your qualifications. But I didn't want to pressure you into doing anything that you didn't want to do."

"Senator, Raquel and I are beholdin' to you for allowin' us to stay on here," Frank says. "Helpin' you get your mine up and runnin' is the least I can do. And it's Frank."

Everdeen extends his hand to Frank. "And I'm Mike."

* * *

"Tom, I wish you'd reconsider," Jack says, his hand clasped to his friends shoulder.

"There's nothing for us here, Jack," Tom Jackson replies. "For all I know, my wife is - dead. Same with Henry and Boggsy. Everdeen tells us that there's a stable community in Canada - place called Mont-Laurier. Rumor has it that's where Janice York sent her kids. Compared to what we've been through, it's not all that far. I think all of us need a fresh start."

Jack nods thoughtfully. "I understand." Suddenly he pulls the other man into a tight embrace. "Goddammit, I'm gonna  _miss_  you!"

"Likewise, Jack," Tom replies in a voice thick with emotion. Stepping back, Tom turns to Henry Mitchell and Morgan Boggs. "Alright, you two. We're burning daylight!"

Henry steps forward. "Goodbye, Jack. Thanks for everything." He embraces Jack quickly then turns away.

"Godspeed, Henry," Jack says.  _Dammit, this is harder than I thought!_  He says to himself.  _Thank God the Cartwrights decided to stay on here! Two less friends I would have to say goodbye to!_

"Jack, I -" Boggs says. "What I mean, is -" He suddenly embraces Jack and whispers, "Fuck, I hate goodbyes! I wish you and your family the best, Jack!"

"I'm a better man from knowing you, Boggsy," Jack says. The older man releases him, steps back, and without another word, climbs onto his bicycle. Jack watches as the three men slowly pedal away down Victory Street - and away from the Everdeen house.

Jack watches them until they disappear from sight. Victoria joins him as he watches.

"They were pretty special, weren't they?" Victoria asks quietly.

"Yeah," Jack replies simply. His arm tightens around his wife's waist. He and Victoria turn to walk back to the house. As they do, a figure approaches them from down the street. Jack's eyes narrow as he recognizes the figure - PJ Abernathy.

"Dammit," he says under his breath as the younger man strides toward them purposefully.

"Is anything wrong, Jack?" Victoria asks.  _I knew I should have told her,_  Jack says to himself.

Before Jack can reply, PJ speaks. "Jack," he says. "Got a minute?"

Jack forces a smile to his face. "Sure, PJ," he says. "What's on your mind?"

The younger man stops in front of Jack and Victoria. "Just this," he says haltingly. "Look, I know I'm not the easiest person to get along with. And I know that I've given you a pretty rough time, what with my sister and Elise and all."

"PJ, you don't -" Jack begins.

"Please." PJ holds up his hand. "Let me finish. I blamed you for something out of your control. Every one of us, we knew how risky this trip was gonna be." PJ pauses and takes a deep breath. "And everyone kept telling me how wrong I was, but I didn't want to listen. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry I gave you all that shit. You did alright. That's all I wanted to say."

Before Jack can say another word, PJ spins and strides away quickly.

"Jack?" Victoria says. "Were there problems between the two of you?"

"Yeah," Jack replies slowly. "In Paris, Texas. When his sister and girlfriend were killed. He blamed me."

"Well, he was wrong," Victoria says. "And he's right. You did amazingly well to get everyone here."

_No, he was right. About everything. Two girls are dead because of a decision that I made._  Jack looks at his wife, then kisses her and says, "By the way, Frank wants Mike and I to check out something at the old mine today. Would you like to come along?"

Victoria shudders and laughs. "No thanks," she says. "Just the thought of being underground makes me shaky."

**EPILOGUE - RELIEF DISTRICT THIRTEEN (FORMERLY MONT-LAURIER, QUEBEC, CANADA) - JULY 4TH, 2071**

_"Major?" The young Marine says through the closed door._

_"Yes?" Major Nate Holmes replies, looking up from the status report that he was reviewing on his PADD._

_"Some refugees here asking to speak with you, sir," the Marine says._

_Holmes sighs. Bad enough that doggy General-President blew him off last month,_ after _insisting that he attend that bullshit so-called "Summit" meeting, but now he's reduced to processing friggin'_ refugees _? "See if Captain Hart can take care of them."_

_"Sir, the Captain referred them to you, sir," the Marine says._

_"Shit," Holmes says quietly. "Fine. Send them in."_

_The door opens and three bedraggled, bearded men enter the room. Holmes examines each one critically. He was not impressed. Still, his Executive Officer did refer them to him._

_"What can I do for you gentlemen?" Holmes says, waving them to chairs in front of his desk._

_"Major, my name is Jackson," one of the men said. "Thomas Jackson. I was the Presidential Science Advisor for President Janice York. My associates, Doctor Henry Mitchell, former head of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California, and Doctor Morgan Boggs, psychiatrist and Brain Trust member."_

_Holmes regards the three men skeptically. "So, Mister Jackson -"_

_"Doctor," Tom corrects._

_"My apologies. 'Doctor,'" Holmes continues. "I heard that some of the staff jumped ship last year. And you're telling me you were a part of that?"_

_"Yes," Tom replies simply._

_"Did you ever meet the President's children, 'Doctor?'" Holmes asks._

_"Several times," Tom replies. "Edward was very interested in science."_

_Holmes reaches over and picks up a field telephone on his desk. He cranks the handle once and speaks rapidly. "Have Captain Hart report to me. Find Agent Coin and ask him to please join us with the York children. And, my respects to Superintendent Pearcy, see if he can't pop in here also. Thank you."_

_"So it's true," Tom says. "Janice York did send her children here."_

_"And they'll be able to corroborate your identity, 'Doctor,'" Holmes says. A quick knock on the door is followed by Captain Stephanie Hart entering the room. "Have a seat, Stephanie," Holmes says._

_As Hart sits down, she says, "Is this about these three, Major? I thought you would want to talk with them, once Doctor Jackson told me who they were."_

_"It is indeed, Captain," Holmes says. Another quick knock on the door is followed by Special Agent Gregory Coin, accompanied by Veronica and Edward York, Junior._

_"Greg, come on in," Holmes says. "Hello Veronica. Hello, Ed." Holmes smiles warmly at the twins. "Ed, I was wondering if you know any of these three men."_

_Ed turns and studies each of the men. As his eyes flicker over Tom Jackson, recognition dawns on his face._

_"Doctor Jackson?" Ed says incredulously. "What are you doing here?"_

_"Hello, Ed," Tom says warmly. "Hello again, Veronica."_

_"Hello, Doctor Jackson," Veronica replies with a smile._

_Holmes looks from the children to Tom, then back again. "Okay," he says finally. "Looks like you are who you say you are, Doctor." He turns to Gregory Coin. "Thanks, Greg. I'll fill you in later. Kids, I promise that we'll explain everything later on, okay?"_

_Coin stands up, looking confused, but gathers the kids up and quickly leaves. Holmes turns back to the three refugees. "You've come a long way."_

_"We have indeed," Tom replies, and quickly explains why the three of them ended up in Mont-Laurier._

_"Hmmm," Holmes says thoughtfully. "We've had a fair number of refugees from those areas come through here. Some have even stayed. Captain Hart?"_

_Stephanie Hart taps her PADD. "Doctor Jackson, your wife's name?"_

_Tom tells her. Stephanie examines the data on her PADD, then looks up. "I'm sorry, Doctor. She's not here."_

_Tom sits in silence for a moment. "I guess that would have been too much to ask," he says quietly._

_"How about Mitchell, Captain?" Henry Mitchell asks. "Christina is my wife. Evan is my son."_

_Stephanie enters the data, then looks up with a smile. "I have a Christina Mitchell, age forty-seven, and Evan Mitchell, age twenty-three. Arrived from Vermont last October. Last big batch of refugees before winter."_

_"They're here?" Henry asks in amazement. "Can I see them?"_

_"Just a moment," Stephanie says. "They're on a work crew today, out at the old graphite mine. I can send someone for them in a bit."_

_"They're alive," Henry whispers, his eyes moist with tears._

_"How about Boggs, Captain?" Morgan Boggs asks. "Coralee and Alfonso. They would have come from New York state."_

_"You won't believe this," Stephanie says, staring down at her display screen, "but yes! Coralee Boggs, age fifty-three, and Alfonso Boggs, age twenty-eight. Coralee is on the same graphite mine work detail as Christina and Evan Mitchell. Alfonso is working at Superintendent Pearcy's office on security detail."_

_"What are the odds?" Holmes says almost to himself, then, "Captain, send a couple of Marines out to fetch the Mitchell's and Boggs' back to here. Make that now, Captain."_

_"Aye, aye, sir," Stephanie says, standing up. As she exits the office she's already calling out the names of the Marine runners that she's sending to look for the families of the latest refugees to arrive in Relief District Thirteen._

_"I am sorry, Doctor Jackson," Holmes says contritely. "I truly wish that we had good news for you as well. Doctor Mitchell - Doctor Boggs. I'll see to it that your families are_ not _assigned manual labor in the graphite mine. Silly-ass make work, anyway - but a game we must play if we want help from the Capitol."_

_"The Capitol?" Tom asks._

_Holmes smiles grimly. "What was formerly known as the Cheyenne Mountain Security Zone is now simply known as the Capitol, with General-President Julius Caesar Phillips as our head of state. You, gentlemen, are now residents of Relief District Thirteen,_ not _Mont-Laurier, Canada."_

_Tom nods in understanding. "And the Capitol wants its errant nukes back, Major," he says with a smile._

_Holmes regards Tom with narrowed eyes. "What nukes are you referring to, Doctor?"_

_Tom laughs humorlessly. "Major, we were all part of the inner circle at one time. We know all about the nukes here."_

_"I'll have to remember that," Holmes grumbles. "Anyway, gentlemen, while we wait for your families, please make yourselves comfortable and I'll try to bring you up to speed on what's new in our world."_

_"How do you know you can trust us?" Henry Mitchell asks._

_Holmes laughs. "Doctor, I figure that you didn't spend months on the road and almost die in the process just to come spy on me."_

_"Speaking of changes," Boggs says, "You mentioned the 'Capitol.' The 'Capitol' of what exactly? Certainly not the United States. Last I looked, Canada was not a part of the United States."_

_"Right you are, Doctor," Holmes replies. "Gentlemen, Relief District Thirteen is part of a new country called Pan America. But that's not what we've been calling it."_

_"I'm confused," Tom says. "What exactly do you call it?"_

_"I'll try to explain," Holmes says, "but it boils down to a cooperative economy between all of the Relief Districts and the Capitol. Something called the 'Pan American National Economic Movement.' So I'll try to explain what's been going on, and, in turn, any insights that you three can give to me regarding the inner workings of Cheyenne - I mean, the 'Capitol,' would be greatly appreciated."_

_"That's a mouthful," Boggs says._

_"I agree, Doctor," Holmes says. "But I think that long name is far more descriptive a title for our new country than simply 'Pan America.' So we've taken to using just the initials rather than that whole clumsy title."_

_"So what do you call it?" Henry asks. Holmes looks at the three of them and says a single word._

_"PANEM."_


	25. DECISIONS

**CHAPTER 25 - DECISIONS**

**OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF PAN AMERICA - CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX, AKA: THE CAPITOL - MID JULY, 2071**

"Mister President? Governor Salazar's on, sir," First Lieutenant Jamie Wise, Senior Aide to President Julius Caesar (J.C.) Phillips, says as she presses the ear bud firmly into her left ear.

"Excellent," Phillips says. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He touches a control on the computer screen sitting in front of him and it flickers to life. He regards the haggard visage on the screen for a moment before speaking.

"Alejandro! Don't tell me you're  _still_  having problems?" Phillips asks, leaning back in his chair.

"Hello, J.C.," Salazar replies. "And yes, I'm sorry to say. It's those Texas Republic Militiamen. They're better armed and better organized than we originally thought. That, plus the fact that the brigade that's stationed in the Greater Dallas/Fort Worth area hasn't exactly been receptive to my authority...well, let's just say that my governorship is limited to what you can see on your computer screen."

"Son of a bitch," Phillips mutters under his breath. "Stand by, Alejandro." Hitting the "Mute" button on the screen, he snaps his fingers impatiently and calls out, "Snow!"

Second Lieutenant Richard Snow, Junior Presidential Aide, appears in the office door in an instant. "Sir?"

"Everything you've got on economic recovery in Relief District Ten, including completed, in progress, and future rail shipments. Order of battle for the, let's see, is it the Thirty-Eighth -?"

"Thirty-Sixth, Mister President," Jamie offers. "The Thirty-Eighth is redeploying to Relief District Six."

Phillips flashes her a quick smile. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He turns back to Snow. "Order of battle for the Thirty-Sixth Separate Brigade, with the Commander's current location and his comm codes. I need this ten minutes ago, Snow."

"Yes, sir," Snow says, quickly backing out of the inner office and returning to his desk to gather the requested data. No one notices his jaw clench with anger.

Phillips taps the "Mute" button again. "Bear with me for a moment, Alejandro. I have an aide looking up some information for me. Can you give me a location on where this Texas Republic Militia might be?"

"Not precisely," Salazar replies. "Their command structure seems to be quite informal. They seem to be most active around the railway marshalling yards, the airport, and some of the larger cattle ranches in the area."

"So who's in charge?" Phillips asks.

"Man by the name of Lipton. Alfred James Lipton. Self-styled 'Commander' of the Texas Republic Militia," Salazar replies. He smiles ruefully. "I only met him once. He wasted no time in letting me know that his mission in life was to 'run my ass back across the Rio Grande.'"

Phillips glances down at his PADD, now beeping insistently. "Stand by, Alejandro," he says quickly before pressing the "Mute" button. "Snow!" He calls out.

"I just finished uploading the data that you requested to your PADD, Mister President," Richard Snow explains as he appears in the doorway. "The Thirty-Sixth is a heavy brigade - two battalions of Bradley Mark III Infantry Fighting Vehicles and a battalion of Abrams Mark IV Main Battle Tanks. They're supported by a heavy artillery battalion. Various other support units. Commander is an officer named Colonel George Kirby."

At the sound of the name Phillips lets out a loud snort, causing Dan Crane to look up from his PADD in surprise. "Do you know this officer, Mister President?" Crane asks.

"Unfortunately, yes," Phillips replies. "He was two years ahead of me at the Academy. If it wasn't for the comet he would have been riffed a long time ago. Always butting heads with the higher-ups." Phillips glances up at Snow, still standing in the doorway. "I want to speak with Colonel Kirby. Find him and get him on the line."

"Yes, sir," Snow replies tightly, turning back to the outer office.

Phillips presses the "Mute" button again. "Sorry to keep you, Alejandro. If you can't give me the location of this so-called 'Commander' Lipton, give me his troop dispositions and, if you can get them, his troop strengths at the airport, marshalling yards, and the largest ranching operation in the area."

"I can get that information to your staff within the hour," Salazar says.

"Good," Phillips replies with a smile. "Once we deal with this Militia problem, I'll take care of my brigade. Phillips out." He reaches over to his computer screen and taps the "End Call" button, then turns to Jamie Wise.

"Okay, Lieutenant," he says. "Give me your 'grunt's eye view' of Kirby's capabilities."

"His Abrams and Bradley vehicles are H-Two burners, just like our Strykers, Mister President," Jamie replies. "If he has a water source, he has fuel. He has the edge in armor protection, we have the edge in mobility. His tanks definitely have the edge when main guns are concerned. The North Texas plain is tailor-made for heavy armor like his. It would take your entire division to beat him in an open fight, Mister President."

"I agree," Phillips mutters. "But I don't think it'll come to that."

Snow appears in the door once more. "I've located Colonel Kirby, Mister President."

Phillips glances up. "Good work, Snow," he says. "Stand by on that call for now. Please find Lieutenant Colonel Kendrick and ask him to report to me as soon as possible."

"Yes, Mister President," Snow replies. "And thank you."

* * *

"Can you do it?" Phillips asks Lieutenant Colonel Gene Kendrick.

Kendrick leans back in his chair and looks thoughtful. "Yes, Mister President," he replies. "If Governor Salazar's information is accurate, we can neutralize the airport, marshalling yards, and the largest ranch with one Ranger company at each site. These Militia have numbers and weapons but are not well trained. I don't foresee much resistance from them."

"Colonel, it's not the Militia that concerns me, but the Thirty-Sixth," Phillips replies. "Specifically, what Kirby will do when he becomes aware of a military operation in his own back yard."

"Mister President, to the best of my knowledge there's been no intel to indicate that he would actively oppose any action against this rogue Militia," Kendrick points out.

"And nothing to indicate that he would support it," Phillips replies. "I've spoken with him several times. His claims are difficult to refute. He's got a huge area of responsibility and not enough troops to adequately patrol it all. He depends on assistance from the Militia to help keep the peace in Relief District Ten. His chief claim is that this is all nothing more than a personality conflict between Governor Salazar and this Lipton character."

"So why doesn't he rein in Lipton?" Kendrick asks.

Phillips sighs heavily. "I asked him the same question. His response was that he couldn't afford to alienate the Militia - that he needs their cooperation too much. Well,  _I'm_ not concerned about 'alienating' anyone!"

Phillips pauses for a moment, consulting his PADD, before continuing. "Get with my planning staff after we're through here, but in a nutshell, this is what's gonna happen: Your Rangers drop on the cattle ranch, the marshalling yards, and Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. I'm gonna move two special Stryker companies by rail to Wichita Falls and have them road in - one to the marshalling yards and one to Dallas/Forth Worth Airport. These are the same companies that provided escort for the summit last month. They'll give you a little extra muscle where you'll need it most. They're tough, well trained, and disciplined. We'll time it to allow your Rangers plenty of time for the drop, consolidation, and establishing your perimeter. The hoverplanes and hovercraft that we'll use for your drop will return to the Capitol to pick up a battalion of dismounted Stryker infantry. That's the best we can do. We don't have sufficient rail assets to move more than a couple of company sized elements, nor can we move more than one battalion at a time through the air."

Kendrick looks thoughtful. "Mister President, I assume that the dismounted battalion will be landing at the airport?"

Phillips nods. "That's correct, Colonel. From there, you can assign them wherever they're needed the most, according to your tactical situation."

"Tactical air?" Kendrick asks.

"Virtually all of our available air assets will be committed to your drop and subsequent pick up and transportation of the dismounted Stryker force," Phillips replies. "No tac air."

"What are Kirby's air assets?" Kendrick asks.

Phillips consults his PADD. "Command and control birds. A handful of small hovercraft. Defensive armament only."

Kendrick rubs his chin. "Kirby's the real wild card here," he says. "If he sides with this Lipton character and uses his brigade to oppose this op -"

"Your Rangers, the two reinforced Stryker companies, and the dismounts will be cut to ribbons," Phillips finishes grimly. "I know. Gene, George Kirby is...well, let's just say he's never impressed anyone. He's plodding, deliberate, and has never been a risk taker. He graduated near the bottom of his Academy class. The one role I just don't see him in is that of a plotter. My gut tells me that, when the chips are down, he'll support you and  _not_  Lipton." Phillips stands up. "You have some planning to do. My aides will see to it that you get all the help you need."

Kendrick stands up and salutes. "Thank you, Mister President. I won't let you down."

Phillips returns the salute. "I know you won't, Gene." The two men shake hands, then Kendrick departs quickly.

Phillips sinks back into his chair, leans back, and closes his eyes for a moment.  _I just hope that_ I _don't let_ you _down, Gene,_  he says to himself.

**DALLAS/FORT WORTH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - RELIEF DISTRICT TEN - LATE JULY, 2071 - ONE HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE**

Two men, both members of the Texas Republic Militia, sit on the well-worn seats of their small truck, staring morosely out at the expanse of concrete and asphalt that lay before them. Both men had, for the last hour, been fighting off the urge to doze off, with varying degrees of success. Their guard shift had started at midnight. The driver yawns loudly, rubbing his face and glancing down to check his watch. Off at sunrise. One more hour to go.

"You hear that?" The driver glances irritably at his partner sitting in the passenger seat.

"Don't hear nuthin' but the wind," the driver mutters. "Jesus, but it's  _cold_! Ain't supposed to be cold in July!"

"Ain't you been payin' attention to Commander Lipton's memos?" The passenger asks. "World climate's all fucked up and will be for a while."

"No shit," the driver mumbles. "And yeah, I've been payin' attention!"

"So you didn't hear anything?" The passenger asks doubtfully.

"I already told you I don't hear nuthin,'" the driver replies. "What the hell do you keep hearin' anyway?"

"I dunno," the passenger replies slowly. "Kind of a fluttering sound."

"Yer hearin' things," the driver says. "Better get them ears checked."

A sharp rapping noise from the driver's door window causes both men to jump violently. The driver twists around and sees a pair of uniformed soldiers standing almost casually outside the truck.

"What the fuck?" The driver frowns and turns toward the passenger. As he does so he can see two more soldiers standing near the passenger side door. "Any o' Kirby's men supposed to be here tonight?"

The passenger shrugs, wide-eyed. Soldiers usually stayed away from areas under Militia control. Another rap at the window causes the driver to turn back around. The soldier standing nearest the door could be seen peering impatiently into the truck.

"Shit," the driver mutters as he lowers his window. "What's up?" He calls out.

"Hey," the soldier nearest the door says conversationally. "You on guard?"

"No," the driver replies sarcastically. "We're just sittin' out here for the fuck of it. What are you doin' out here, anyway?"

"Why, we're hear to relieve you of your guard duty," the soldier replies with a smile. "And we're to take you into custody, and confiscate your weapons."

For a long moment, both the driver and passenger simply sit and stare at the soldiers now half-surrounding their truck. The driver swivels his head around to look at the passenger, and in the dim pre-dawn light sees another soldier literally drop from the sky about twenty meters or so to the front of the truck, the soldier's parachute collapsing even as the soldier hits the concrete. The soldier collapses, rolls, and springs to his feet gracefully, hitting the quick release on his chest and shrugging out of the parachute harness in a single smooth motion. He spins and drops to one knee, his back to the truck, scanning the area directly to his front, his hands suddenly filled with a small, lethal looking submachine gun.

_Kind of a fluttering sound._  Parachute silk panels flapping in the wind.

"Easy," the soldier standing by the truck door says. "No need for you to die today."

The driver turns his head slowly back to the open window and sees the soldier casually pointing a pistol into the truck. The soldier slowly opens the driver's side door and steps back.

"Come on out now, Slick," the soldier says, gesturing with his pistol. Numbly, the driver complies, hearing the passenger door opening and a similar command issued to the passenger.

Quickly, the soldiers search the two Militiamen, relieving them of weapons and radios, handcuffing them securely. A sergeant raises his commicuff to his mouth and speaks quickly.

"Runway One-Three Right secure." The sergeant receives an acknowledgement to his transmission, then turns back to the group of soldiers assembled around the truck.

"Looks like this may be a lot easier than we thought," he says with a grin.

* * *

First Lieutenant Jamie Wise looks up from her work station. "Mister President, Commander Lipton of the Texas Republic Militia is on the line."

"Excellent!" J.C. Phillips says. "Are we all set with the video conference call?"

"Snow's tying it in now, sir," Jamie replies.

"I've got it," Richard Snow interjects. "Anytime you're ready, Mister President."

"Good work, you two," Phillips says. "Snow, stand by. I need to speak with 'Commander' Lipton first." Phillips taps his video screen and sits back as the doughy face of the commander of the Texas Republic Militia appears.

"Well, well, well," Lipton sneers. "'President' Phillips, I presume? Or is it still 'General?'"

"Both, actually," Phillips replies smoothly. "So whatever you're comfortable with."

Lipton lets out an unpleasant laugh. "'General' it is then," he says. "Considering that the office of President of the United States is vacant, and has been for quite some time...not to mention the fact that we don't recognize this so-called nation of 'Pan America' down here in the Texas Republic."

"Mister Lipton," J.C. Phillips says in an even, conversational tone, "You might as well get used to the idea that the United States as we knew it is gone. Dead. Pan America is the only way to ensure not only our survival, but our growth as a nation. And the Pan American National Economic Movement is the cornerstone to that growth. And your interference is hampering not only the recovery of Relief District Ten - what you continually insist on referring to as the 'Texas Republic' - but to the nation as a whole."

"It's 'Commander,'  _not_  'Mister!'" Lipton barks. "And let's get one thing straight - we control all of the surviving cattle ranches in the country, as well as most of the surviving oil wells and petroleum refineries,  _and_  a significant portion of the new coastline as well.  _We_  can do just fine without you or this so-called bastard country of yours!"

Phillips leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. "Perhaps," he says slowly, "but Pan America can't do 'just fine' without the economic contributions of Relief District Ten."

"And you have the nerve - the  _gall_ \- to send a...a  _Mexican_  down here as Governor?" Lipton says, his voice rising. "Fuck you  _and_  Pan America!"

"Mister Lipton," Phillips says calmly, "It would be much easier on everyone if you would cooperate. I can see that won't be the case here. Fine. You say you control cows, oil and fish." Phillips pauses and leans in closer to the monitor. "I control an army," he hisses. "One that I will not hesitate to order to roll over you unless you meet the conditions that I'm about to give you."

Lipton laughs. "I've got Kirby's heavy brigade, you stupid fuck!"

"Ahh, yes," Phillips says with a smile. "About that. Please stand by." Phillips presses the "Mute" button and calls out, "Okay, Snow. Conference call time."

"Stand by, Mister President," Richard Snow calls out. Phillips sees his screen flicker, the separate neatly down the middle. On the left side of the screen the image of Commander Alfred Lipton glowered at Phillips, while on the right the craggy, stern visage of a man in a United States Army field uniform stared impassively out of the screen.

"Colonel Kirby? How do you read?" Phillips asks.

"Five by five, Mister President," Kirby replies.

"Excellent. Stand by," Phillips says, tapping a control on his screen. "Mister Lipton? Are you receiving the split transmission?"

Lipton stares back at Phillips in confusion, his eyes flickering from side to side. "Kirby? What the fuck is goin' on?"

"Commander," Kirby replies, "What's going on is this - you mistook my non-interference with your operation here in Ten for approval. Governor Salazar is the duly appointed chief executive of this district. And don't for a minute think that you have any sort of control over transportation or cattle assets. The airport, rail marshalling yards, and the largest ranch in the area were seized less than two hours ago by Capitol forces."

"Bullshit," Lipton replies flatly. "I would have heard something."

"Why don't you check for yourself, Mister Lipton?" Phillips suggests with a smile. "We'll wait."

As Phillips watches, the left side of the video screen suddenly freezes, and a window appears on that half of the screen bearing the words "TRANSMISSION PAUSED." Phillips nods in satisfaction then turns toward the image of George Kirby, his face still staring impassively from the right side of the screen.

"How long do you think it will take him to verify that our op was successful?" Phillips asks.

"Not long, Mister President," Kirby replies. His mouth set in a grim line, he continues, "I'll have my resignation to you within an hour, sir."

"Don't bother, George," Phillips says. "I have no intention of accepting it."

"Sir?" Kirby says, confused. "I - I don't understand. It's obvious that my performance here has been substandard. I let a redneck Hitler with delusions of grandeur run loose and nearly wreck what chance we have of real recovery and progress. And I did it thinking that I needed his cooperation."

"You're half-right, George," Phillips replies. "You need the cooperation of the Texas Republic Militia. What you don't need is the cooperation of Alfred Lipton."

"Mister President, I -" Kirby says, before Phillips holds up one hand.

"George, don't argue with your Commander-in-Chief. I need you there. End of story. Now, who's Lipton's second in command?"

"I don't believe that he has one, sir," Kirby replies.

"Excellent," Phillips says with a smile. "I have just the man for the position of Militia Commander. A Captain by the name of Estes. Brandon Estes. He's commanding one of the two reinforced Stryker companies that I sent down there. I think he and his company would make an excellent cadre for the Militia."

"Mister President, this raises another question." Kirby says.

"Regarding Lipton?" Phillips asks.

"Yes, sir," Kirby replies. "Regarding Lipton."

"You have a unit in place to take him into custody?" Phillips asks, raising a single eyebrow with the question.

"Yes, Mister President," Kirby replies. "Ready to move on your order."

"Excellent," Phillips says with a grin. "Schedule his execution as soon as Captain - make that Major - Estes is installed as the new Commander of the Texas Republic Militia. Make it something public - hanging or firing squad. We'll be broadcasting the execution in every Relief District. We need to make an example of him and send the message that treasonous behavior  _will not_  be tolerated. Clear?"

"Execution, Mister President?" Kirby asks doubtfully. "Without a trial or due process?"

Phillips sighs heavily. "George, I'm sure that you've heard of the Paris and Benton bombings. This is much more surgical. And yes, if it will add legitimacy to the execution, by all means try Lipton first. Charge him with High Treason. Find him guilty. And execute him. Publicly."

Kirby says nothing as he stares out of the video screen at Phillips. "George," Phillips says quietly, "This is a critical time for Pan America. We're extending the rail network slowly and surely. Relief Districts are beginning to come around to the National Economic Movement and are cooperating with us and with one another. But there's still resistance out there. One man's life is a small price to pay to quell further resistance. If this has the effect that I think it will, the entire country can move forward and really start to recover and even prosper. Can't you see that?"

"Mister President," Kirby finally says, "I am at your service, sir."

"Lipton is signaling, Mister President," Jamie Wise says. "He's back online."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Phillips replies. He taps a control on his video screen. "Mister Lipton! I assume from the expression on your face that you managed to confirm what Colonel Kirby told you earlier?"

"I...I don't...what is it you want?" Lipton asks miserably.

As Phillips and Kirby watch on their video screens, a group of soldiers appears behind Lipton. Phillips grins as they haul the Militia Commander to his feet and handcuff him.

"What do I want, Mister Lipton?" Phillips asks. "Only your head...on a silver platter."

**EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM - CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - THE CAPITOL - EARLY AUGUST, 2071**

The group assembled in the Executive Conference Room watches the main view screen intently as Colonel George Kirby reads the list of charges and the penalty - death by firing squad. They watch as Alfred James Lipton is chained securely to a wooden post and a black hood is placed over his head. The front of the hood hangs down over his chest, exposing the concentric red rings of a classic bulls-eye target.

Kirby, stepping off to one side, issues the firing commands. Seven rifles, one loaded with a blank according to tradition, bark simultaneously. Lipton jerks against the post and slumps against the chains, his body hanging limply to his right. A doctor quickly moves forward and presses a medical sensor against the side of Lipton's neck, then looks up and shakes his head.

"This went out to all of the Relief Districts, correct?" President J.C. Phillips asks his Chief of Staff, Dan Crane.

"Yes, Mister President," Dan replies. "We've received confirmation from all of them."

"And the reactions?" Phillips asks.

"Too early to tell, Mister President," Dan replies. "However, there doesn't seem to be any negative backlash."

"Stay on top of it, Dan," Phillips instructs his Chief of Staff.

"Next order of business," Phillips says, consulting his PADD. He glances up and quickly scans each face at the conference table before continuing. "I'm sending you all home at the earliest opportunity."

Confused chatter immediately rises from the others seated at the conference table. Phillips lets it go on for a moment, then raises both hands. Gradually the din subsides until relative quiet is restored once again.

"Mister President?" Phillip Abernathy says. "Sir, I have to admit I'm confused. Some of us - well, our pre-Impact homes aren't there any more."

"A poor choice of words on my part," Phillips says. "Look, everyone. This fiasco in Ten showed us all that this system has vulnerabilities. It's fragile. A single charismatic racist was able to effectively shut down Pan America's primary source of animal protein. This country can't afford to take that sort of risk again. So, I've made the decision to send all of you back to your respective Relief Districts - some to actively lead, others to be representatives of our new government. In time, each Relief District will have democratically elected representation here in the Capitol - but that time will be a long time coming. Now, we won't be able to cover each district, but here's the plan that Dan and I have put together so far."

As if on cue, the lights in the conference room dim and the main view screen flickers to life. A list of names and Relief District numbers flashes in turn on the screen as Phillips speaks.

"Relief Districts One and Two already have representation through the Cray and Thread families. I've been in contact with both districts and both families and both families have agreed to help out."

Phillips taps a key on his PADD and more names and district numbers appear on the screen. "Relief Districts Three, Five, Six, Nine, and Thirteen will, for now, have no Capitol representation. I plan on making a quick trip to each of these districts sometime in the very near future to meet with the leaders there. In the meantime, I've made the following assignments for the other Relief Districts." He taps keys on his PADD again as he speaks.

"Relief District Four - General Cresta. Sir, I understand that your wife and family are still in old Louisiana. We'll arrange your transport to pick them up as well. Seat of government for Four is, as you all know, located in Pine Bluff in the former state of Arkansas."

Paul Cresta inclines his head gravely. "Thank you, Mister President." He says no more.

Phillips nods slightly at Cresta before continuing. "Relief District Seven - Admiral Mason. Admiral, I understand that your wife and family have already relocated near old Spokane?"

"Yes, sir," Mason replies simply.

"You'll see them again soon," Phillips says with a smile before he continues. "Relief District Eight - Secretary Paylor and her family."

"Yes, sir," Leigh Paylor says quietly. "There may be an addition to our list. My son is quite - involved - with Justine Heavensbee. They met while hospitalized together last year."

Both Phillips and Paylor quickly glance at Elliott Heavensbee, who was sitting quietly, but tight lipped, at the end of the table.

"Well, that's between you and Doctor Heavensbee," Phillips says, chuckling quietly. The rest of the table joins him in dutiful laughter before he continues.

"Relief District Ten. Amanda Dalton."

"Sir?" Amanda says from her seat at a small work station behind and to the right of the President's seat. "You already have - I mean, Governor Salazar is down there, and Colonel Kendrick, and Major Estes..."

"Alejandro Salazar needs help, Amanda," Phillips explains gently. "From someone that knows and understands the cattle industry...but can also navigate through the political world as well. I know it's not exactly home - but it's the best I can do."

"Yes, sir," Amanda says quietly.

"And that brings us to our last two Relief Districts - Eleven and Twelve," Phillips says. "For Eleven, I'm giving up someone that I've really come to depend on over the past few weeks - Captain Jamie Wise."

Jamie stiffens at the sound of her name, and even more so by the rank that Phillips had referred to her by - Captain. She glances at Phillips in confusion.

"Mister President? Sir?" Jamie takes a deep breath. "I ain't - I mean, I'm not - qualified to do this, sir. You need someone with experience in politics - not me. I'm just a grunt. A year ago I was a squad leader!"

"And look at you now, Jamie," Phillips says with a smile. "Jamie, what I need in Eleven are your eyes and ears. I've talked to the people running things there...decent folks for the most part. But I need someone loyal to the big picture - and that's you."

"You want me to spy for you," Jamie says flatly.

"Not at all," Phillips replies smoothly. "Jamie, the powers that be in Eleven know that I'm sending someone out. And they know why. They know that you're there to be my eyes and ears. No spying, no sneaking around. Can you handle that?"

Jamie is silent for a long moment before replying. "Yes, Mister President. I can do that."

Phillips grins widely. "Good! And now, last but not least. Phil, I suspect you know where I'm heading with this?"

"I have a suspicion, Mister President," Phillip Abernathy says warily. "And I'm sure it involves me headed to the former Bethel Park sometime in the near future."

"Indeed it does, Phil," Phillips replies, nodding his head. "Questions? Concerns?"

"Just one," Abernathy says. "Mister President, you are effectively sending what remains of your entire Cabinet away, not to mention some very close advisors. I'm wondering if this is the best course of action for Pan America."

"I appreciate your concern, Phil," Phillips replies. "And no, I am not dissolving either the remains of the Cabinet or my advisory staff. Now that we have fairly reliable communications networks established I fully intend to keep soliciting all of you for advice whenever I need it."

"I consider each and every one of you a valuable member of this team," Phillips continues. "However, I know that conference calls are a poor substitute for a team actually present here. So, with Dan Crane still operating as my Chief of Staff, I've asked our Capitol Council members - specifically the Heavensbees, Trinkets, and Flickermans - to assume a greater role in helping me govern Pan America."

"Mister President," Paul Cresta says, "I'll be the first to commend the Heavensbees, Trinkets and Flickermans on their contributions thus far - but perhaps something like this is somewhat out of their area of expertise."

"And I would be the first to agree with you, Paul, if we were sitting here in August of 2069 - when the pre-Impact population of the United States was right around four hundred thirty four million," Phillips says. "Dan, what are the most current estimated census figures?"

"Around forty-five million, Mister President," Dan replies after a moment.

"Ninety percent," Phillips says. "We've lost almost ninety percent of our population. Another winter is looming on the horizon. We hope that it's nowhere near as devastating as the last winter, but we can still expect a death toll in seven figures. It's been almost two hundred years since our population was that low. Ladies and gentlemen, this is an entirely new set of circumstances that we've been forced to deal with here - and it requires that we look at problems in a different way. This way."

The room was silent for a moment. Finally, Leigh Paylor says, "When can we expect to leave for our new assignments?"

"I want you all in place in your assigned Relief Districts by the end of the month," Phillips replies. "I'll leave the details up to each of you. I'm planning on touring each of the Relief Districts starting September First, starting with Eleven." Phillips turns to Jamie Wise. "Captain, I'll deliver you personally," he says with a smile.

"Thank you, Mister President," Jamie says softly.

"Alright," Phillips says. "Anything else?" Silence. "No? Okay, we're adjourned."

As everyone is filing out Dan Crane quietly takes Phillips aside. "Major Estes has been requesting to speak with you, Mister President," he says.

"I'll be in my office in ten minutes, Dan," Phillips says. "Have Snow get him on video conference for me."

"Yes, sir," Crane replies. "Ten minutes."

* * *

"Major Estes!" Phillips says, as the younger man's face appears on the video screen. "I was told you wanted to speak to me?"

"Thank you for speaking with me on such short notice, Mister President," Estes says. "I wanted to talk to you about the uniforms that were shipped to us."

Phillips chuckles. "I take it you have an issue with the color?"

"Mister President," Estes begins slowly, "I know it was my idea to outfit the Militia in uniforms. What I expected was something along the lines of a combat uniform camouflage pattern, or perhaps some khaki variant."

"Major, you were informed that the plant in Relief District Eight was able to fill the order but has been having problems in procuring fabric dyes?" Phillips says in an amused tone.

"Yes, sir," Estes replies. "Mister President, when you told me that, I expected some strange color." He stands up, revealing himself to be clad head to toe in a white uniform. "I never expected it to be  _no_  color!"

Phillips tries, and fails, to suppress a smile. "Major, you have to admit that they are distinctive."

"Mister President," Estes replies, "Sir, with all due respect, this uniform puts me more in mind of a mechanic than a member of a paramilitary organization."

"Major, have no fear," Phillips says. "The uniforms contract that we have entered into with the textiles folks in Eight means that they'll be supplying uniforms for a long time to come. Soon, everyone will be wearing white!"

"Everyone?" Estes says doubtfully.

"Everyone," Phillips confirms. "We're in the process now of drafting an executive order to combine existing law enforcement agencies all over Pan America with military units. Some places have already done this - Four, for example. But this will make it official."

"And the uniforms?" Estes asks.

"Major, I will make it my personal mission to see that whatever law enforcement still is operational in Ten, along with the Thirty-Sixth Brigade, receives top priority for uniform replacement with the new white uniforms," Phillips says.

"It'll take some getting used to," Estes says. "By the way, Mister President, I've come up with a replacement name for the Militia."

"Oh?" Phillips says. "Let's hear it!"

Estes pulls a pistol from a holster worn low on his hip. "I'm naming it after this. This pistol has been in my family for almost two hundred years. The Colt Single Action Army. Not modern by any means, but one of the best pistols ever."

"So the Texas Republic Militia has become the Single Action Army Militia?" Phillips asks with an amused glint in his eye.

Estes catches the humorous tone. "No, Mister President," he says with a smile. "The Militia is now known by a one-word name that was not only a popular name for this pistol, it also describes the Militia's new mission perfectly."

Major Brandon Estes pauses before speaking a single word.

"Peacekeepers."


	26. MANIFEST DESTINY

**CHAPTER 26 - MANIFEST DESTINY**

**THE CAPITOL - MID AUGUST, 2071**

Dan Crane eyes the building skeptically. "Are you dead set on this, Mister President?"

"Dan, the people of Pan America deserve a President that doesn't spend ninety-five percent of his time huddled in the center of a mountain under the protection of an Army division," JC Phillips replies. "We need to be visible to everyone. The worst is behind us - and Cheyenne Mountain was certainly the logical choice at the time. But things are different now."

Crane looks doubtful. "Yes, sir." He quickly glances at the pair of aides flanking the President.  _Come on, you two - back me on this!_

Captain Jamie Wise fixes Crane with a defiant stare. "I think it's a great idea, Mister President."

Phillips turns and regards Jamie with arched eyebrows. "Captain, I don't like ass-kissers."

"Neither do I, Mister President," Jamie replies evenly. "If I thought this was a bad idea I woulda said so."

Phillips smiles tightly. "Well, if you like the idea of getting out of the Zone and into the Springs...excuse me, the  _Capitol_...you'll love this." Phillips glances at his aides and his Chief of Staff before continuing. "I've decided to tour each Relief District in order. And I'll be personally delivering Capitol representation to their respective districts."

"No!" Crane barks, returning Phillips' glare with his own determined gaze. "Mister President! Things aren't exactly stable in many areas. We've received some disturbing intel from East Texas and Arkansas regarding our actions against Paris and Benton, not to mention the overthrow of the Texas Republic Militia. People in Relief Districts Four and Ten are, in places, openly hostile to our government. Mister President, we just don't have the assets to bring sufficient security to protect you adequately."

Phillips regards Crane calmly for a moment, then turns to his aides. "Captain Wise? Lieutenant Snow? Anything to add?"

Both officers hesitate for a moment before Jamie speaks. "Sir, protectin' you is hard enough around here." She gestures to the platoon-plus of infantry that had them more or less surrounded. "Out there...I've been out there, Mister President. And I wouldn't feel comfortable with anything less than a full company guardin' you."

Crane fixes Jamie with a baleful stare. "I thought you said this was a 'great idea,' Captain," he says sarcastically.

"It is, Mister Crane," Jamie replies evenly. "But I didn't say it was gonna be easy."

Phillips looks thoughtful. "Snow? Anything to add to the threat assessment by Captain Wise?"

"No, sir," Snow mutters softly.

"Somehow I didn't think so," Phillips says. "Well. I have to say that your concern is touching. However, I have no intention of making myself a target. Some seventy years ago, during the Second Gulf War, a phrase was coined. Green Zones. These were secure areas inside otherwise unstable regions. That's where I intend to visit - the most secured areas in each Relief District. I will leave it up to each district to provide whatever security will be needed during our visit. But rest assured, this trip  _will happen_."

"Mister President," Crane says slowly. "I understand your intent. But I'm also thinking of the greater good regarding Pan America. You have no Vice President. The lines of succession are not clear at all. If something were, God forbid, to happen to you -"

"I will leave sealed orders regarding succession back here," Phillips says. "To be opened only on the event of my death or incapacitation. Dan, no one is indispensable - least of all me. If our government is to be taken seriously then the people must see their Chief Executive...even at the risk of my own life!"

"And if you are killed, Mister President?" Crane asks.

Phillips turns toward his Chief of Staff. "In that case - make sure you get it on camera," he says with a small grin. Without waiting for a reply, Phillips turns back to the group of buildings that he had been inspecting.

"Colorado Springs is a beautiful city," he says softly to no one in particular. "It's a perfect choice for the Capitol of Pan America."

**THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT - EXECUTIVE MANSION - THE CAPITOL (AKA: COLORADO SPRINGS) - LATE AUGUST, 2071**

The director catches the eye of President Julius Caesar Phillips and holds up his right hand, fingers splayed. "Mister President, you're on in Five...Four...Three...Two...One." A red light appears on top of a tripod mounted camera as the director points a finger at Phillips.

"My fellow Pan Americans. Good evening. I am addressing you for the first time from my office in the new Executive Mansion located here in the Capitol of Pan America. I'm here tonight to speak to each and every one of you as Pan Americans...not as citizens of the former United States, or of the Republic of Mexico, or of the Commonwealth of Canada. No. As  _Pan Americans._  We - all of us - have survived the worst Catastrophe in humanity's recorded history, and, to the best of my knowledge, we are the  _only_  surviving government left on Earth."

Phillips pauses, looks down at a series of notes laid out on his desk, then looks back at the camera. "We - all of us - have lost much. Our census experts estimate that only ten percent of our pre-Impact population is still alive. There's not a single person watching this broadcast tonight that hasn't personally felt the pain of losing loved ones over the past fourteen months."

"I am personally humbled by the shadows of the great leaders that have preceded me. President Janice York, who was forced to make incredibly difficult decisions when faced with planning for the most devastating Catastrophe that humankind has ever faced. President Alexander Cray, who reluctantly assumed the reins of responsibility and kept the government of a battered nation focused on what it needed to do in order to survive. The Governance Committee, who stepped in when needed and kept the machine of government running when it was most in danger of failing."

"But we have survived. Not only that, we have begun to  _thrive_! Our rail system, based in Relief District Six, is working around the clock to ensure that every Relief District in Pan America can be reached by rail. Likewise, Relief District Five is extending power transmission lines to provide every citizen of Pan America with a reliable source of energy. Relief Districts Four, Nine, Ten and Eleven have once again begun to harvest the bounty of the Earth and the sea to feed our hungry population. The sawmills of Relief District Seven are operating around the clock to provide lumber for our rebuilding efforts. Relief Districts One, Two, Three, Eight, Twelve and Thirteen are working diligently to provide minerals, building stone, electronics, textiles, coal, and graphite with its many uses."

"Over two centuries ago, our forbearers coined a phrase - 'Manifest Destiny' - the belief that it was the destiny of the American people to conquer and tame a wild continent. My fellow Pan Americans, we are faced with a new Manifest Destiny, only this time it goes by a new name - the Pan American National Economic Movement. Now, many have tried to discredit this Movement as just another word for Communism. Well, it  _is_  Communism. But it is Communism born, not out of abstract political ideology, but out of that mother of invention - necessity. Each Relief District  _must_  do their part in providing their industry for the greater good of the nation. The industry that each Relief District provides supports the other Relief Districts as well as the beating heart of Pan America - the Capitol. And, in turn, each Relief District is supported by the others as well as the Capitol."

Phillips pauses again, looking down at his notes before looking at the camera again. "It is to that end that I am announcing that, commencing on September First, I will personally visit and tour each Relief District in Pan America. I will make myself available at each stop for questions and for you, the citizen, to voice your concerns - and to share your ideas. Together, we will build a new nation on the ashes of the old. And it begins here - tonight. Thank you for listening and I look forward to seeing as many of you as possible in the coming weeks. Good night."

"And...we're off," the director says. "In the can, Mister President."

"Excellent," Phillips says, then turns to Dan Crane. "This will go out tonight?"

"Within the hour, Mister President," Crane replies.

Phillips stands up. "In that case, Dan, I think I'm gonna call it a night. We'll go over the itinerary for the Grand Tour tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Crane replies, consulting his PADD. When he looks up, Phillips is already gone.

"Sleep well, Mister President," he says quietly.

**THE QUARTERS - EXECUTIVE MANSION - THE CAPITOL - LATE AUGUST, 2071**

"Hello, Susanna," Phillips says as he examines his face in a mirror. He can already see the lines around his eyes deepening.  _This job prematurely ages everyone who's ever held it._

"How did you know I was here?" Susanna asks quietly, stepping into the sitting room from the bedroom.

"Not many women these days bother with perfume," Phillips says with a laugh. He turns and faces Susanna Snow. He smiles when he sees that she's wearing a long, dark blue robe. He suspects that she's not wearing anything under it.

Susanna walks towards him slowly. "Julius, I spend just about every waking hour wearing a uniform," she says softly. "It's a rare treat to be able to feel like a woman - even for a short time."

Phillips smiles and pulls her into his arms. His suspicions are immediately confirmed. Susanna is, indeed, naked under the satiny robe.

Phillips kisses his lover deeply and Susanna returns his kiss with equal ardor. "So what do I owe the pleasure of this visit tonight, Colonel?" He asks with a smile.

"'Colonel,'" Susanna murmurs. "I'm still not used to 'Major.' And I thought you would appreciate an update on the transfer of government from the Zone to Colo - I mean, the Capitol."

"Please continue," Phillips says with a smile, sinking onto a black leather couch.

Susanna sinks down onto his lap before continuing. "The transfer will be complete by the time you return from your Relief Districts Tour. We've encountered some minor resistance from some members of the local business community as well as some local government, though."

Phillips' eyes narrow a fraction as he replies. "What kind of resistance?" he asks evenly.

"Mostly regarding payment," Susanna replies. "And we've told them all the same thing - once we can establish a monetary system that's worth something we'll be happy to pay - as long as the price is reasonable."

"Recovering the gold from the Bullion Repository is a top priority of mine," Phillips says, pausing to kiss the side of Susanna's throat. "As is salvaging what we can from the Denver Mint. We need money. We can't survive indefinitely on a barter system alone."

"There's the problem with Louisville as well," Susanna points out.

"Fortunately enough troops remained on station at Fort Knox to continue to provide security for the Bullion Repository," Phillips replies. "As for Louisville, I think I'll just let it rot on the vine."

Susanna had been leaning forward to plant her own kisses on his neck. Now, she stops and looks up at Phillips questioningly.

"You're just going to leave them to their own devices?"

Phillips allows his hands to slide over the gentle curve of her hips before replying. "That's exactly what I intend to do. Louisville's influence does not extend much beyond its city limits, jurisdiction there is muddy - depending on what map you look at, it either falls under the influence of Relief District Four, Eight, or Twelve - and, Bullion Repository aside, there's really nothing there that is of any real value to Pan America."

Susanna frowns. "I don't understand. When I spoke with my sister in Twelve a week ago, she told me that a woman named Raquel Donner had managed to escape Louisville and told her that the entire city was overrun by vigilante gangs, and that hundreds had been executed for any reason - or no reason! Why take action against Paris, or Benton - but not Louisville?"

"Four reasons," Phillips explains calmly. "One. Louisville is not crucifying people in the name of religious zealotry. Two. Louisville is not practicing rampant cannibalism. Three. Paris was destabilizing Relief District Ten, Benton was destabilizing Relief District Four - Louisville has zero influence on any of the Relief Districts. Four. Louisville has absolutely nothing that Pan America has a critical need for."

Susanna still looks unconvinced. "Look," Phillips continues. "By bombing Paris and Benton, and by invading Ten, we flexed our muscle. What we have to do now is show restraint...especially when it involves a place as unimportant as Louisville. So we ignore it. Bypass it. Eventually the vigilante movement there will collapse and the residents will either leave for more stable areas or will make overtures for incorporation into one of the Relief Districts."

Susanna wraps her arms around Phillips' neck. "When you put it that way, it makes more sense. By the way, Julius - thank you for making that call to my sister happen. Not that we're especially close or anything...but it has been well over a year since I've spoken with her."

"I'm just glad you could speak to her, Susanna," Phillips says with a smile. "And it was good to hear that Hawthorne and the rest made it there more or less safely." Phillips laughs. "I wonder what Abernathy's son will be thinking when we drop out of the sky in a hoverplane in a few weeks to deliver his father to Twelve?"

"I still wish I was going with you," Susanna says quietly.

"We've been through this before," Phillips replies, more curtly than he intended. "I need you back here working with the Trinkets, Heavensbees, and Flickermans. We need to get a draft Constitution assembled, not to mention the District Redistribution System that Captain Cardeaux has been working on. My goal is to have a Pan American-wide national election, with all thirteen Relief Districts including the Capitol, participating in by November of next year. No, Susanna - I really need you here."

"I know," she says softly. "I just would feel better if I could be there - you know, an extra pair of eyes and ears - not to mention an extra gun - just in case."

Phillips laughs as he draws Susanna tightly into him. "I have Jamie Wise and your brother to take care of me."

"About my brother," Susanna begins, closing her eyes as she feels his lips explore her throat once more, "I have a favor to ask."

"What?" Phillips murmurs between kisses.

"Julius, ease up on him a little." She feels Phillips stiffen and for a moment is afraid that she's gone too far.  _Oh, well,_  she says to herself.  _In for a penny, in for a pound._

"He's not even twenty-two yet," she continues, "and a year ago he was a private - a deserter that had been forced to return. He did a good job with the Rain Wallace Raiders and with the recon of Paris and Benton. He performed well on the southern run to pick up and return Governor Salazar. But he...he's still got some growing up to do."

Phillips sits up, disengaging himself from Susanna. "If you recall, I took him on as an aide at your request. I treat him just like I would any other aide. No better, no worse. And I expect my aides to perform."

"Julius, all of your other aides were professional officers, or careerists like Jamie Wise," Susanna points out. Her voice softens as she says, "Just bear that in mind when you're dealing with him...please. He really is doing the best that he can."

Phillips looks at the woman sitting next to him on the couch for a long moment, then finally smiles. "I'll...I'll try to keep that in mind," he says as he reaches for her again.

"Thank you, Julius," Susanna murmurs just before their lips meet.

They kiss passionately for many seconds, then Phillips pulls away and regards Susanna tenderly. "You know," he says softly, "I don't let anyone else call me 'Julius.'"

"I feel special...Julius," Susanna sighs, kissing him again. They both feel the flames of passion building up inexorably inside them as their kisses deepen. Finally, breathlessly, Susanna breaks their kiss and stands up.

"Come on to bed, Julius," she breathes, holding a hand out to him. Phillips stands up slowly and slides his hand into hers.

As she leads him into the bedroom, Phillips can see the covers already pulled down. "It's still early," he points out playfully.

Susanna pushes him back onto the bed, then unties her robe, shrugging her slim shoulders and allowing it to drop in a puddle at her feet. "Who said anything about sleep?" she murmurs as she climbs into bed next to him, quickly pulling off his shirt and pants to drop both on the floor next to her robe.

**RELIEF DISTRICT ELEVEN - 'MANIFEST DESTINY' TOUR - MID SEPTEMBER, 2071**

The hoverplane describes a large, lazy circle over the Relief District Eleven landing field, slowing in preparation for landing. In spite of herself, Jamie Wise finds herself staring wistfully out the window at the ground below.

"Good to be home, Captain?" President J.C. Phillips asks with a smile.

Jamie turns and smiles at the President. "Almost home, sir," she corrects. "Dalton's still almost a hundred fifty klicks further North. But yeah - I mean, yes, Mister President. It feels good to be home."

"Well, I hate to lose a good aide," Phillips replies. "They're hard to come by, these days." He casts a pointed glance at Second Lieutenant Richard Snow, who pretends to be busy with his PADD - but the reddening of his ears and neck, along with the tight set of his mouth, indicate that he heard Phillips only too clearly.

Jamie, aware of the tension that has developed between the two men, says, "Mister President, I'm sure Lieutenant Snow will continue to serve you well, sir."

"Of course," Phillips says in a flat voice.  _Favor or not to Susanna, my first priority after returning to the Capitol will be to find a replacement for this buffoon,_  he says to himself.

Dan Crane leans forward. "This will be an easy stop, sir," he says. "A quick speech, a tour of nearby peach orchards and cornfields, a reception this evening with the governor and her staff, overnight stay in District headquarters, and an early start tomorrow."

Phillips sits back and rubs his face wearily. "Two more after this one and then back home," he says. "I'm no politician, Dan. I'm a soldier. I feel like I'm on some kind of weird campaign trail here."

"Mister President, this is just what the country needs," Crane says sincerely. "Everywhere we've visited so far on this tour you've been received very well! Your presence has really inspired people!"

Both men can feel the subtle shift in the hoverplane as it flares up in preparation for landing. "Inspired, huh?" Phillips smiles. "And I thought running a division was tough. There I didn't have to be 'inspiring.' I just had to be a hard-ass."

With a sigh the hoverplane settles on its landing gear. Phillips twists around in his seat and looks out the window. The hoverplane is enveloped in a cloud of reddish-orange dust.

He turns back to Dan Crane. "What say we let the dust settle a bit before we go out and inspire the good people of Relief District Eleven?" He says with a smirk.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid that's all the time we have for questions today," Dan Crane says into the microphone. A low groan goes up from the crowd. "Thank you all for coming out." Crane turns to President J.C. Phillips, extending his arm in the direction of the stage steps. "Right this way, sir."

"Just a moment, Dan," Phillips says, turning back to the microphone. "Folks? Excuse me for just a moment." The crowd, which had just begun to disperse, turns back toward the stage at the sound of his voice.

"I have a feeling that perhaps some of your questions were not answered adequately," Phillips continues, "and that we ran out of time to get to all of your questions. I don't want to leave anyone hanging, so if you can, over the next few days, give your leaders here a list of questions, they will send them to the Capitol where I will answer them to the best of my ability."

"Mister President," Crane says insistently.

"I know, Dan," Phillips replies, then turns and barks, "Snow!"

"Yes, sir," Richard Snow replies, fumbling with his PADD.

"Get with the local leadership, set up a means for the locals to forward questions to me, and, while you're at it, you may as well do the same for the other Relief Districts. I'm sure One through Ten will want in on this even though we've already visited them. And be prepared to do the same for Twelve and Thirteen. Got it?"

"Yes, Mister President," Snow replies tightly.

Phillips turns away from Snow to face Jamie Wise. "Captain - Jamie - the more I think about it, the more I want to reconsider my earlier decision about leaving you here as Liaison."

"I'm at your disposal, Mister President," Jamie murmurs.

Phillips starts to say something, stops, seems to think about it for a moment, then does speak. "No. I need you here. But you'll be missed." He then turns and catches sight of Phillip Abernathy with his family. "How about it, Phil? Ready to tour some farms and orchards?"

"Of course, Mister President," Abernathy replies with a smile, offering his arm to his wife.

"Excellent." Phillips turns to Dan Crane. "Okay, Dan. You can stop having kittens now. We're ready."

"This way, Mister President," Crane says. Phillips turns to follow Crane, glancing over his shoulder at Richard Snow as he does.

"Snow, you stay here. I want a preliminary plan ready for my review by the time we return. You  _can_  handle this, right?" Phillips turns back toward his Chief of Staff and the Abernathy family. "Captain Wise, I certainly hope that you will accompany me one last time on this tour."

Jamie smiles and turns to reply to Phillips, but is distracted by a clattering sound behind them - as if someone had dropped something. She glances back towards where Snow had been standing and freezes in place, her eyes going wide with surprise.

"Snow! NO!" She shouts, fumbling at her holster and drawing her pistol.

"Christ," Phillips mutters, "What the fuck  _now_?" He begins to turn back toward Snow when he hears Snow shout.

_"Sic semper tyrannis!"_

President/Major General Julius Caesar Phillips never hears the sound of the gunshot.

**NATIONAL COMMAND CENTER - CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - MID-SEPTEMBER, 2071**

Chaos.

That's the only word to describe the scene in the Cheyenne Mountain National Command Center following the assassination of Julius Caesar Phillips. And at the center of the storm is Lieutenant Colonel Susanna Snow, who somehow has to hold everything together while simultaneously dealing with the death of her lover, Julius Caesar Phillips - and her brother, Richard.

Of course, the lover part had been very carefully concealed - although several people suspected that was the case, they simply didn't have concrete proof. However, there was no doubt about the nature of her relationship with Richard Snow.

The words of J.C. Phillips to Dan Crane had proven to be prophetic - "In that case - get it on camera," he had said in response to Crane's concern over an assassination attempt. And now, Susanna sits quietly at her console, replaying the video of the assassination over and over again.

Her face expressionless, she watches her brother drop his PADD, draw his pistol, and, with his face twisted in rage, shout  _"Sic semper tyrannis!_ " before aiming at the back of President Julius Caesar Phillips' head, pulling the trigger once, twice, three times. She watches as Captain Jamie Wise, her face frozen in shock, manages to shout at Richard Snow once before drawing her own pistol, aiming and firing even as Snow's last shot echoes from the speakers. She sees her lover and her brother crumple lifelessly, both dead before they complete their fall.

Susanna flinches slightly when she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder. She quickly glances behind her to see Commander Charles Smith standing near her left shoulder. He gives her a small smile and softly squeezes her shoulder.

"Hey," he says softly. Her only response is to lean back and sigh heavily.

Charles grabs a nearby chair and wheels it over next to Susanna. Wordlessly he settles into the chair next to her. Susanna reaches out and taps the "Replay" button on the computer screen. Charles and Susanna watch the horrifying tableau unfold in front of them once again. They watch Phillips crumpling lifelessly, his body tumbling down the few steps leading from the stage to the ground. They watch Richard Snow's face instantly disfigured by bullet impacts and see him drop limply to the stage.

"Susanna," Charles begins, "Words aren't adequate. Just know that we're all very sorry for your loss."

"My loss," Susanna mutters bitterly. "My brother - my own  _brother_  - is an assassin. An assassin who murdered this countries' best hope at recovery."  _Not to mention the only man that I have ever been in love with_ , she says to herself.

Susanna once again feels the tears welling up inside, and once again fights them back down.  _No! I won't give in! I_ can't _give in!_

"We're all guilty, you know," Charles says softly.

"Guilty?" Susanna snaps. "Guilty of what?! My brother pulled that trigger!"

"Lack of imagination," Charles murmurs. "All of us were so worried about an attack from something external - survivors from Paris or Benton, maybe, or some Texas Republic Militia loyalist - that we never considered that the greatest threat could come from the inside."

_Because of me,_  Susanna says to herself.  _Because I pushed Julius into taking Ricky on as an aide. I should have known that Ricky didn't have the temperament for a job like that. And now they're both dead. Dead because of me._

"It's all ruined now," Susanna says softly.

"No!" Charles says forcefully. "No, it's not! Relief Districts have been established, industries are well on their way to producing enough for all of Pan America, and each district has good, firm leadership in place. Six is working around the clock to link everyone by rail, and Five is stringing hundreds of kilometers of power lines every week! President Phillips was dynamic, charismatic, and forceful, and his leadership will be missed - but he is  _not_  irreplaceable!"

"To me, he is," Susanna mutters, almost inaudibly.

Charles fixes her with a long stare before replying. "So the rumors are true?" he asks softly. "About you and him?"

" _Were_  true, you mean, Charles," Susanna replies bitterly.

"Holy shit," Charles whispers.

"Exactly," Susanna replies. "Holy shit." She suddenly clenches her eyes shut and forces herself to take a few deep breaths, fighting down a sudden wave of nausea.  _Not now! NOT NOW!_

"Are you alright?" Charles asks, the concern in his voice evident.

"Yeah," Susanna manages to say. "I just don't feel very good."

Charles eyes her skeptically but says nothing. Susanna leans back in her chair as she successfully fights down the nausea, then, after a final deep breath, opens her eyes.

"See?" she says, "Nothing to worry about. I'm just great," she adds bitterly.

Charles looks unconvinced. "I hate to bring this up," he says, reaching under his uniform shirt, "But we have something that we need to do." As he speaks, he pulls out a small thumb drive dangling from a chain.

"What's that?" Susanna asks, even as she realizes that she probably already knows the answer.

"President Phillips recorded his orders designating his successor on this thumb drive," Charles explains. "I've just come from the Executive Mansion where I retrieved it from his safe. I've sent word out to the Heavensbees, Flickermans, and Trinkets. They'll be here in a few minutes. We'll need to view this when they get here. Are you up to it?"

"Yes," Susanna says firmly, standing up. "Where will we view?"

"Main Executive Conference Room," Charles replies. He glances down as his commicuff beeps insistently. "They're here. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"

"Let's go," Susanna says flatly, turning and striding out of the Command Center, not waiting for Charles.

* * *

Charles leans forward slowly and taps the "STOP" button on the view screen, then turns back around to the conference table.

"Mister President," he says deliberately, addressing Robert Joseph Trinket. "May I be the first to offer my congratulations?"

Trinket stands up slowly, a stunned look on his face. "I...no. I can't do this. I'm nowhere near qualified. I'm a  _cop,_  for God's sake! I'm no politician!"

"Mister President -" Charles begins.

"And  _stop_  callin' me that!" Trinket erupts.

"- we're in a crisis here," Charles continues. "Three Presidents - four, if you count Thread - in the last fourteen-plus months. A Governance Committee. The Capitol Council. The Relief Districts are stable for the time being, but who knows how long that will last if there's a power vacuum? President Phillips knew what he was doing when he named a successor. There can be  _no_  vacuum! Pan America is bigger than any one man - or woman."

Trinket shakes his head slowly. "This is America," he says quietly. "Where Presidents are elected,  _not_  selected - or named as the previous Presidents' successor."

Charles shakes his head slowly. "Yes, sir," he says quietly. "And we will. Once the new constitution is completed, and ratified by the Relief Districts, and once each District is represented here in the Capitol, and we have a new Supreme Court, and once we are able to conduct a true national election -  _then_  we will elect a President. But for now - sir, you're it."

"There's better people," Trinket argues. "Abernathy...Paylor...Cresta. Even Bouvier or Salazar. Not me."

"The cabinet members are all now District Governors," Susanna points out, speaking for the first time, "and we all saw the trouble in Ten with Salazar as Governor there. What do you think would happen if we installed a Canadian or Mexican as the new President of Pan America? I'll tell you what would happen, Mister Trinket. Everything would collapse. Everything!"

"Jesus H. Christ, Bobby!" Elliott Heavensbee says. "Take the damn job! Phillips chose you for a reason, you dumb fuck! So say yes, get sworn in, and let's get back to work!"

Trinket looks at each of the faces at the conference table in turn. Slowly, wearily, he sinks back into his chair. "What's our timetable for our first national election?" he asks.

"Next November," Susanna replies. "A little less than fourteen months."

"Alright," Trinket says reluctantly. "I'll serve until then. And I'm letting you all know now, I  _will not_  seek re-election - and, if elected, I  _will not_  serve. Understood?"

"Understood, Mister President," the group assembled at the conference table says, nearly in unison.

**OPEN CLINIC, TWO HUNDRED NINETY SECOND COMBAT SUPPORT HOSPITAL - CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - LATE SEPTEMBER, 2071**

Melody Temple-Smith smiles at the patient sitting on the edge of the examination table. "Hello, Susanna," she says gently. "I was told you wanted to speak with me personally?"

"Thank you for seeing me, Melody," Susanna says. "Yes. I have a favor to ask."

"Go ahead," Melody replies.

"How's Marcellus?" Susanna asks suddenly.

Melody looks at the other woman in surprise. "He's fine, thanks for asking," she replies. "He's a really happy baby...smiling all the time. It's so fun to watch Charles with him - he just melts when he's around Marc!"

"That's good," Susanna says absently, chewing her lip. "About the favor..."

"What is it, Susanna?" Melody asks gently.

"I'm pregnant," Susanna blurts. "Or, at least, I think I'm pregnant."

"Who's the father?" Melody asks in surprise. "Or shouldn't I ask?"

"One guess," Susanna says miserably.

"I'm so sorry, Susanna," Melody says, pulling the other woman into her arms and hugging her. "Did he know?"

Susanna shakes her head. "I was planning on telling him after he returned from the Districts Tour."

"And if you really are pregnant," Melody says, "what are your plans?"

"I'm keeping the child," Susanna says firmly.

Melody nods. "I understand," she says. "So I assume you would like my help with getting tested?"

"Yes," Susanna replies. "Anonymously if at all possible."

"I can help you with that," Melody says, "but you'll really need to see an OB/GYN as soon as possible if you are. We can do blood or urine - your choice."

"Can I do both?" Susanna asks. "I...I just really want to be sure."

"Of course," Melody says with a smile. "It will be a few hours before we get the lab results back. If you like I can call you directly."

"Thank you, Melody," Susanna says with a small smile.

"Anytime," Melody replies. "Okay, let's get a sample of your blood first..."

* * *

Several hours later, Susanna is sitting at her desk, reviewing a proposal from Captain Cardeaux regarding schedules for the District Redistribution System.

_It's a good plan, funneling all of the goods from each Relief District through a central redistribution center here in the Capitol. That way, we can re-direct goods to wherever they're needed the most -_

Susanna's desk phone suddenly rings, causing her to jump a little. She squints at the caller identification bar and sees that the call is coming from the hospital. Susanna takes a deep breath and tries to control the trembling in her hands as she answers.

"Snow," she says simply.

"It's positive," Melody's voice says. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Melody," Susanna says quietly, then hangs up the phone. Unconsciously, her hand slides down over her belly.

"No matter what," she whispers, "I'll always have a part of you with me."

_And you, my child, will go far in restoring the good name of Snow._


	27. PANEM

**CHAPTER 27 - PANEM**

**CHAPTER 27 PROLOGUE**

_The senseless assassination of President/Major General Julius Caesar Phillips by his trusted aide, Second Lieutenant Richard Snow, in September 2071 nearly threw the nascent nation of Pan America into chaos - and would have, if not for the foresight of the very man murdered by the assassins bullet._

_President J.C. Phillips' rise to political power was sudden, and his time in office could be measured in mere weeks - yet he knew that the last bastion of civilization left on Planet Earth would never survive if the old United States government continued to conduct "business as usual." But, to be fair, the seeds of what were to become the nation of Pan America were sown long before his appointment to the highest office in the land - sown by the tattered remnants of the very government that Pan America would eventually replace._

_The Pan American National Economic Movement was the plan that the new nation needed in order to not only survive, but thrive. But every plan needs a catalyst - a spark - something to ignite it and keep its fires burning. President Janice York, the last President of a pre-Impact United States, could have provided that spark, had she not chosen to die in Washington, D.C. on Impact Day. Her successors, Alexander Cray and Randall Thread, were too ill and ineffectual to keep the flame alive and were quickly replaced by a stop-gap, ad hoc Governance Committee consisting mainly of York's former Cabinet - but this committee was only able to keep the embers warm. They were limited in their power, and they understood this, just as they understood that they needed a true leader to step up to fan the flames of growth._

_Although not a politician - he had been the youngest Major General in modern United States Army history - J.C. Phillips nonetheless aggressively assumed the office and immediately set about transforming the old United States into the new Pan America. Gone forever were the old States, replaced by thirteen Relief Districts, so named because they were responsible for coordinating post-Impact Relief efforts within their spheres of influence. Under the auspices of the Pan American National Economic Movement, each Relief District was assigned a primary industry, the goods and services of which would be made available to the entire nation. In return, each Relief District would receive goods and services from the other Districts. The Capitol of Pan America, located in the former city of Colorado Springs, would be responsible for both governing all thirteen Relief Districts and in ensuring that goods and services were fairly and equitably distributed throughout the nation._

_Phillips knew that the only way to convince the survivors of the greatest Catastrophe to befall humanity was by making a personal appearance in all thirteen Relief Districts. He understood the risks involved - he was, after all, a soldier first, and the new nation was hardly stable. But he also knew that he himself was expendable. So, before departing on what became known as the Districts Tour, he left a sealed message behind in the care of one of his trusted advisors, Commander Charles Smith, formerly of the United States Navy, in which President J.C. Phillips personally named his successor. This message was to be opened only in the event of President Phillips' death or incapacitation severe enough to prevent him from discharging his office._

_Once Phillips' assassination was confirmed, a meeting was convened consisting of those aides and advisors still present in the Capitol. In the bowels of the Cheyenne Mountain National Command Center, Robert Joseph Trinket, retired Police Captain and a member of the "Prepper" community outside the old city of Falcon, Colorado known as "The Enclave," was named as the second President of Pan America, surprising everyone._

_Trinket was the best kind of leader - one that had never sought power and accepted it reluctantly - but at the same time, was determined to do the best job that he could under the most trying of circumstances. His first act was to attempt to convince the former Secretary of State, Phillip Abernathy, to return to the Capitol to assist him with governing the new nation...a request that was politely refused. Abernathy was tired - no, exhausted - by the events of the previous twenty-one months and wanted nothing more than to assume the governorship of Relief District Twelve._

_The stop in Twelve was brief - just long enough to drop off Abernathy and his family. The Tour returned immediately to the Capitol - canceling the stop in Relief District Thirteen - where President Trinket presided over his second official act - the state funeral of President J.C. Phillips._

_Trinket didn't waste any time in mourning. He quickly appointed Brigadier General Samuel Gray as the new Commander of the Third Mechanized Infantry Division (Reinforced), which, by now, most everyone simply referred to as the Capitol Division, and promoted him to Major General. With each Relief District in the hands of capable governors, and with a competent staff of advisors to oversee day to day operations, President Trinket, along with his wife, Julia, a retired Special Agent from the old Federal Bureau of Investigation, concentrated his initial efforts in the area that he understood best - law enforcement._

_Using the cooperation displayed by two Relief Districts - the Jefferson County, Arkansas, Sheriff's Department, the Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Police Department, and the Army Brigade assigned to Central Arkansas (Relief District Four), as well as the reformation and reorganization of the Texas Republic Militia into the Texas Peacekeepers (Relief District Ten) - as models, President Trinket - with the assistance of his wife, former Special Agent Julia Trinket, set about reforming not only law enforcement, but the military as well, into a single paramilitary force - the Peacekeepers._

_At first, the Trinkets were met with fierce opposition from both the military and the remnants of existing law enforcement agencies throughout Pan America, both of which felt that they were simply protecting what they felt were their own unique responsibilities. The Trinkets met with military and law enforcement leaders alike and assured them that their authority was in no way being subverted - just combined. To the military leaders, the Trinkets pointed out that there were no more foreign powers to protect the borders of Pan America from - and to the leaders in law enforcement, well, they now had access to heavy weapons and equipment that previously had only been available to the military._

_Even so, change was slow in coming. President Trinket ordered that all Peacekeeper detachments in each Relief District adopt the same heavy-duty, off-white uniforms that the former Texas Republic Militia had been issued - but only as their issued military and law enforcement uniforms wore out. He also authorized the establishment of a Peacekeeper Headquarters and Training Command in Relief District Two - when (and if) funding and materials would become available to support both endeavors. Both Trinkets knew that, in order to "sell" this idea, a real demonstration of Peacekeeper capabilities was in order. And the opportunity to provide such a demonstration presented itself with another top-priority agenda item - securing the gold in the former United States Bullion Repository in Fort Knox._

_The government of Pan America was well aware that the success of the Pan American National Economic Movement hinged on a single word in its title - "Economic." Trading goods and services between Relief Districts was fine for the "big picture," but individuals would still need some way of obtaining these goods for themselves - and a purely barter system was not feasible for a nation of forty-five million people. Money was needed. Money that was backed by a precious metal - gold. And the largest source of gold available rested in the Bullion Repository in Fort Knox._

_The Trinkets knew that, by securing this gold, they would literally kill two birds with a single stone. The viability of the Peacekeeper force would be established, and Pan America would have gold to boost its economy. This operation was given the highest priority, and Relief District Four was given the responsibility of carrying it out._

_There would not be a lot of time available to plan. The second post-Impact winter was fast approaching. The Trinkets wanted the gold secured and delivered to the Capitol by the end of October._

_The order was given. Governor Paul Cresta would have to cut short his reunion with his wife, Emilia, as he, along with Sheriff Lucas O'Dair and Colonel Taylor Howard, were called to the Capitol in late September to plan and to receive their orders. The mission itself was simple - secure the gold and move it to the Capitol. A second mission - to secure and recover the remains of the old Denver Mint and move same to the Capitol - was given to General Gray and his Capitol Division._

_This was the first critical test of the Trinket Administration. And it was executed flawlessly._

_The Relief District Four Peacekeeper force moved swiftly to the Bullion Repository. The only serious resistance that they encountered was from the Army unit that had steadfastly guarded the Repository since Impact Day. This situation was resolved without violence by Paul Cresta, who convinced the local commander that these measures were necessary and in the nations' best interests. It was only long after the fact that the local commander learned that the "nation" in question was Pan America._

_General Gray's forces similarly had no problems in securing the Denver Mint. The locals there had no interest in the Mint - after all, you couldn't eat anything inside. Soon, both the gold and the mint were secured and relocated to the Capitol - and Robert Joseph Trinket had scored his first political victory._

_Shortly afterwards, the second post-Impact winter settled in over Pan America - but this time, the new nation was much better prepared, thanks in no small part to the rabbit, chicken, and grain mutations that fed millions during the long winter. There were still deaths from disease and starvation, to be sure, but nothing approaching the awful toll that the previous winter had taken. Pan America had taken root in the brief summer before the Second Winter, known tragedy and chaos, hibernated for months, and was ready to blossom once again with the promise of new life._

**BIRTHING UNIT - TWO HUNDRED NINETY SECOND COMBAT SUPPORT HOSPITAL - THE CAPITOL, PAN AMERICA - EARLY JUNE, 2072/YEAR 1 A.I. (AFTER IMPACT)**

Lieutenant Colonel Susanna Snow dozes fitfully, still exhausted from ten hours of intense labor. She shifts uncomfortably in the narrow hospital bed, yawns, and turns on her side, wincing slightly as a stab of pain lances through her groin.  _What I wouldn't give for just two hours uninterrupted sleep!_

As if on cue, a fitful wail rises up from the bassinet next to the bed. Susanna lets out a groan and rolls over, then sighs and carefully swings her feet out from the bed. She pulls herself to her feet carefully and bends over the bassinet, reaching down and gently scooping up the tiny, wiggling bundle.

Susanna cradles the infant carefully as she eases herself into the high-backed rocker next to the bassinet. Once seated, she lifts the small bundle carefully and holds the child to her nose, sniffing. Satisfied that no messes await her, she then inserts a finger into the infants diaper and smiles slightly when it comes away dry. All this time, the child continues to wail.

"So, I'm guessing you're hungry, is that it?" She asks quietly, loosening the top of her nightgown. She turns the child slightly in her arms, guiding her breast to the hungry infant. The wailing ceases the instant that the child's lips close around her nipple. The small bundle relaxes, cheeks hollowing slightly as a soft sigh escapes the pursed lips.

"So far, so good," Susanna whispers, gently tracing her finger over one satiny cheek. She allows herself to lean back slightly in the rocker, holding the baby firmly as her eyes slowly drift shut. Maybe just a few minutes -

"Susanna?" A voice in the doorway causes Susanna to jump slightly. The baby stirs, sighs once, then continues feeding. Reluctantly she opens her eyes, focusing on -

"Melody," Susanna says with a smile. "Come on in."

Melody Temple-Smith walks into the room, bending down slightly to look at the feeding baby.

"He's beautiful," Melody whispers.

"He gave me a run for my money, that's for sure," Susanna says tiredly. "Must have taken a lot out of him, too. All he does is eat and sleep."

"Marcellus was the same way," Melody says. "Two hollow legs."

"Do you still nurse?" Susanna asks.

Melody smiles wistfully. "Sometimes. On some days it's the only 'close time' I get with him."

"I think I understand now," Susanna says, smiling down at her son. "I just wish that...he was here to see his son."

"I'm sure he would have been very proud," Melody replies quietly.

"Anyway," Susanna says, deliberately changing the subject, "The doctors tell me that they're booting me out of here first thing in the morning. And, I've already made arrangements for Julian at work, so -"

"Julian?" Melody asks. "You're naming him Julian?"

"Well, I figured that the identity of his father is the worst-kept secret in the Capitol, and I wanted to honor his memory, so giving Julian a version of his father's name is the best way to do just that," Susanna replies.

"And you're going back to work already?" Melody asks in surprise.

Susanna nods, shifting her son in her arms slightly. "I have to," she replies, "otherwise the Enclave Triumvirate will end up sticking their collective noses in places where they're not wanted - again."

"Susanna -" Melody says, a note of warning in her voice.

"Oh, Melody, please," Susanna says tiredly. "I doubt if my hospital room is bugged. Besides, Flickerman and Heavensbee already know how I feel about them."

"Still, you know how much President Trinket values their counsel," Melody replies. "And you have to admit that they've done a decent job so far."

"So far." Susanna whispers. "So far." She shifts her son to her shoulder and begins to pat his back gently.

"I guess I should get going," Melody says, a trifle uncomfortably. "You need to get some rest. Will you need some help in the morning?"

Susanna smiles at the younger woman gratefully. "That would be great. Thank you, Melody."

Melody bends and kisses Susanna on the cheek. "Try and get some sleep, okay?" She smiles down at Julian one last time. "He is beautiful, you know."

"I won't argue," Susanna says with a smile. "Goodnight, Melody."

"I'll see you in the morning," Melody says as the door closes behind her.

Susanna leans back in her chair and smiles as her son finally burps loudly. She shifts him carefully, cradling him in her arms.

"At least you're still with me, Julian," she whispers. "The name of Julian Snow will be one to be reckoned with - you just wait and see."

Julian squirms and Susanna feels a rumbling under her arm, followed by an odor that causes her to wrinkle her nose.

"But first, we'll work on getting you toilet trained."

**EXECUTIVE MANSION - THE CAPITOL, PAN AMERICA, EARLY JUNE, YEAR 1 A.I.**

President Robert Joseph Trinket closely examines the various coins scattered over his desk, picking up first one, then another, and still another. Finally he carefully sets each coin down, leans back in his chair, and speaks.

"So what do you plan on calling these again?" He asks, addressing the man and woman seated in front of his desk.

"The smallest one is called a  _Tremissis..._ roughly equivalent to a one cent piece. Next is a  _Siliqua_ , about equal to a nickel, then a  _Denarius..._ easy to remember, as it and 'dime' begin with the letter "D," then the  _Solidus_ , or quarter, followed by the  _Aureus,_  or half-dollar, and finally the  _Sesterius,_ or dollar." The woman explains carefully. "The  _Sesterius,_ or  _Sesterce,_  can also be minted in denominations of five, ten, twenty, and fifty. But the basic unit would remain the  _Sesterius._ "

Trinket picks up the largest example on his desk and flips it towards Elliott Heavensbee, who, along with Stu Flickerman, was sitting on a leather couch under a window. Heavensbee catches the coin easily and quickly examines it before passing it on to Flickerman.

"So what's wrong with just calling these pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, half-dollars and dollars?" Trinket asks as Heavensbee and Flickerman examine the coin. "Why the Roman names? I feel like I've walked into a re-make of  _Ben-Hur_  or something."

"Mister President, Pan America is a new nation," the man replies. "A nation that is drawing upon the models of the old United States as well as the ancient Roman Republic for inspiration. My colleague and I both felt that the monetary system for a new nation - indeed, the  _only_  nation left on Earth - deserved new names."

"But you said so yourself, these names ain't new," Elliott Heavensbee points out wryly.

"A poor choice of words on my part," the man replies. "True, these names are at least two millennia old...but they haven't been in use for many hundreds of years. 'Recycled' may be more accurate."

"What about transactions over fifty - what do you call them?  _Sesterces_? I don't see people lugging around bags of coins with them." Trinket points out.

"We can print notes or transfer funds electronically," the woman replies. "Although we aren't quite set up for either yet. All we have right now is the mint, Mister President."

"And who's gonna be on these coins and notes?" Stu Flickerman asks. He tosses the sample coin back to Trinket. As with all of the others, it's blank.

"That decision, of course, would be left up to the government," the man replies. "But just off the top of my head, I would think people such as Janice York and J.C. Phillips would be good candidates."

Trinket nods slowly, then stands up. "Thank you both for coming," he says, as the man and woman stand up as well. "I'll let you know of our decision once I've had a chance to consult with the remainder of my advisory staff. May I keep these examples?"

"Of course, Mister President," the woman replies. "And thank you for your time today."

After the pair leave, Trinket sinks slowly into his chair. " _Sesterces,"_ he mutters. "Jesus Christ."

"Remember, Bobby," Elliott Heavensbee says with a grin, "'The Buck - or  _Sesterce_ , as the case may be - stops here.'"

"Fuck you, Heavensbee," Trinket mutters.

**RELIEF DISTRICT TWELVE, PAN AMERICA - TRAIN STATION - JULY 4TH, YEAR 2 A.I.**

"Happy anniversary, Jack," Paul Undersee says quietly to his companion. Jack Hawthorne turns to the other man and gives him a wry grin.

"Careful, Paul," he jokes, "Don't wanna get coal dust on that shiny white uniform of yours."

Undersee shoots Hawthorne a disgusted look and spits into the dust on the platform. "Thanks for reminding me. I need to head over to Abernathy's for my weekly bitch session about these idiotic uniforms."

"Good luck with that," Frank Donner says, joining the two men on the platform. "I'm sure that's high on his 'to do' list." Donner pauses and tosses a fist-sized chunk of coal towards Jack, who catches it easily. "Check that out," he says.

Jack turns the lump over in his hands, examining it closely. "Anthracite?"

"I'll make a geologist outta you yet," Donner says, nodding. He points back toward the outskirts of town. "Opened up a new seam over there," he explains. "It's a big one. Almost all anthracite."

"That's what we want, right?" Jack asks.

"That, and bituminous," Donner replies, nodding. "I suspect that there's another seam near the one this came out of. A type of coal called 'steam coal.' Kind of a hybrid between anthracite and bituminous."

"That reminds me," Jack says. "I need to check in with Abernathy on the barge question."

"You can walk over with me after the train gets here," Undersee says, then adds, "If it ever gets here."

Jack nods as Donner says, "Is the Capitol still dicking around with the barges, Jack? I thought that was resolved!"

"I thought so too," Jack replies. "Especially since Everdeen's last trip West. Trains alone won't be able to handle the volume of coal that we'll be able to process for shipment. It makes a ton more sense to ship up the Monongahela to the Allegheny, and from there to the Ohio and Mississippi."

"Funny, isn't it?" Donner says. "Here we are, deep in the twenty-first century, dependent on barges and trains for our very existence."

"Not the twenty-first century, Frank," Undersee says with a laugh. "Officially it's Year Two, After Impact. Happy anniversary or New Year, as the case may be, by the way."

"Hard to believe it's been two years," Donner says quietly.

"I second that," Jack adds.

The sound of a distant train whistle cuts off any further talk. The three men peer eagerly down the track, finally catching sight of the incoming train.

"About time," Undersee mutters. "Nothing like being a week late. Pantry's been looking pretty spare these last few days."

"It's all part of 'redistribution,' Paul," Jack says sarcastically. "Pretty soon they'll have figured out exactly how much to send us with literally nothing to spare. Wouldn't want us to get  _too_  comfortable, now!"

"I don't think we have to worry too much about that," Donner says darkly. "This train does not look nearly as big as the last one."

Jack and Paul look at the train more closely, then at each other. It was definitely lacking cars from the last shipment. As the train comes to a halt, freight handlers surge forward to begin offloading the cargo. The three men hang back, watching as all manner of goods are offloaded and placed in nearby storage sheds for later distribution.

Finally, the last car is offloaded and, as the freight master signs the bills of lading presented to him by the conductor, Jack and his companions approach the two men.

"Hey," Jack says as the freight master looks up.

"Mister Hawthorne," the man greets him warily.

"So," Jack says conversationally, "where's the rest?"

"This is it, Mister Hawthorne," the freight master says with a sigh. The conductor quickly backs away as the same freight handlers that unloaded the train now begin to load the empty cars with sacks of coal.

Jack smiles at the freight master. "Looks a little light to me," he says.

"It is, Mister Hawthorne," the man replies unhappily. "Eighty-two percent of what we got last shipment. Look, gentlemen, I just process what comes in. They didn't give a reason. This is what came out of the Capitol Redistribution Center."

"Does that mean we can cut our coal exports by eighteen percent next time?" Jack asks in a low voice. "Look, Eric, I'm not blaming you. Like you said, you process what we get. But I'm on the Relief District Council. What am I supposed to tell people?"

"I'm sorry, Mister Hawthorne. I really am." Eric looked at the three men. "Look, I have to live on the same rations as you. I ain't too thrilled about this, either. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta finish my paperwork for the coal out-shipment."

As the three men watch the freight master hurry away, Paul Undersee turns to the other two and says, "What say we go talk to Governor Abernathy now?"

The three men leave the platform in silence. Finally Frank Donner asks, "Exactly what does the 'Relief' in 'Relief District' stand for?"

"Didn't you know, Frank?" Jack replies bitterly. "Relief from obesity, of course."

**RELIEF DISTRICT THIRTEEN, PAN AMERICA - EARLY AUGUST, YEAR 2 A.I.**

"Mom wouldn't like it," Ed York, Junior, says to his sister.

"Mom's dead, Ed. Remember?" Veronica York stares defiantly at her twin brother.

"Okay, but - Ronnie, you're only fifteen!" Her brother replies. "How old is Private First Class Carson again? Twenty? He's too old for you! Besides, I'm sure it's illegal or something!"

"Guess again, Eddie," Veronica says. "Didn't you see the order from the Capitol that came in last week?" Veronica pauses and closes her eyes, then begins to recite the order. "'The Emergency Procreation Act of Year Two, A.I. In order to foster population growth, and in light of the recent Catastrophes, by Executive Order, the age of consent for males and females of child bearing age is ordered reduced to the age of fifteen years until further notice. Males and females between the ages of fifteen and seventeen may legally marry or engage in any other lawful public union with the partner of their choice as long as said partner is no more than five years older than said male or female, without consent required from either parent or legal guardian.' Kenny is five years older than me. So it's legal."

"It's still wrong," Ed says darkly. "And I  _know_  that neither Mom or Dad wouldn't like it!"

"Well, we can't ask them, now, can we?" Veronica says sarcastically. "And neither Uncle Henri or Aunt Clotilde can say anything about it." Veronica pauses before continuing, much quieter now, "Eddie - Kenny and I love each other. I wish you could be happy for me."

Ed stares at his sister for a moment, then turns and, without another word, walks away.  _That Marine is after one thing, and one thing only,_  he says to himself.  _And once he gets it, Ronnie is the one that's gonna be hurt._

* * *

The wedding between Private First Class Kenneth Carson and Veronica York, only daughter of the late President Janice York, takes place less than three weeks later. Edward York, brother of the bride, was not in attendance. The ceremony was officiated by the Relief District Thirteen Governor, Etienne Bouvier, and witnessed by Major Nate Holmes, Captain Stephanie Hart, and the Liege's, Clotilde and Henri, the aunt and uncle of the bride.

The newlyweds established their residence in a small efficiency-style apartment. Even Ed York had to admit (after a long while) that he couldn't remember the last time he had seen his sister so happy. Well, yeah, he could. It was before that damned comet was discovered.

Ed tried to accept his twins' marriage, with varying degrees of success. When Veronica announced, two months after the wedding, that she was pregnant, Ed even managed to smile and congratulate the parents-to-be.

Two months later, Veronica York-Carson was dead...a victim of an influenza epidemic during the Third Impact Winter. Her flu quickly turned into pneumonia. A week after first complaining of chills and fever, she was dead.

Ed had completely underestimated Kenny Carson. The young Marine-turned-Peacekeeper was so devastated by his brides' death that he committed suicide a week after Veronica's funeral.

Ed eventually married, years later, to a French-Canadian girl that worked in mine administration at the graphite mine where Ed worked. Eventually Ed became a foreman at the mine, and gradually people forgot that his mother had been the last President of the United States.

A little over a year after he married, Ed's wife had their first child. A little girl.

Ed insisted on naming her Veronica.

**RELIEF DISTRICT FOUR, PAN AMERICA - EARLY OCTOBER, YEAR 2 A.I.**

Lucas O'Dair walks slowly away from the fresh grave, one arm draped around his wife's shoulders. The O'Dairs were flanked on one side by Colonel Taylor Howard, late of the United States Army, and on the other by Major General Paul Cresta, the Governor of Relief District Four, and his wife, Emilia.

"The Judge was a good man, Luke," Cresta finally says, breaking the silence.

"That he was, Governor," Taylor Howard says. "His counsel was invaluable to both Luke and I when we were trying to get some semblance of law and order established here."

"I've known Judge Crockett pretty much my whole life," Luke says quietly. "He's one of those kinds of people that's just always been there, you know? It's still hard to believe that he's gone."

The sound of a beeping commicuff cut off any further conversation as Cresta, Howard, and O'Dair all glance guiltily at their wrists. A muffled curse from Cresta identified who the incoming message was for.

The group reaches the carry-all that they had driven out to the cemetery in just about the time Cresta finishes his hushed conversation. Lucas quickly climbs behind the wheel of the carry-all as everyone else quickly slides inside and shuts the doors.

"Governor?" Luke asks as he starts the engine, "Back to the Hall of Justice?"

Cresta sighs deeply. "Please, Luke. At least these bastards waited until the Judge's funeral was over."

"Trouble?" Lucas asks as he puts the carry-all in gear and drives slowly away from the cemetery.

"Our esteemed liaison informs me that he's been getting pressure from the Capitol regarding our quotas," Cresta says in disgust. "Maybe they aren't aware that it's somewhat difficult to fish in a  _Goddamn hurricane!_ _ **"**_

"I thought the Capitol was well aware of the issues we've been having with weather," Taylor Howard says.

Cresta chuckles humorlessly. "Oh, they know, all right, Taylor," he replies. "And then I get the old 'Do you know the challenges involved in feeding over forty million people, et cetera, et cetera.'"

"Speaking of that, Governor," Lucas says, "I was going over the bills of lading from our last redistribution shipment. Cut almost ten percent from the previous shipment."

Cresta rubs his hands over his face tiredly. "And  _that_ shipment was down seven percent from the one before it. I know, Luke. I know."

The rest of the drive was made in silence. With practiced ease, Lucas steers the carry-all into his reserved spot by the Hall of Justice. As he exits the vehicle, Lucas turns and hands the keys to his wife.

"No tellin' how long we'll be, darlin'," he says as he kisses her. "Can you see that Emilia gets home okay?"

"No need to fuss with me, Lucas," Emilia Cresta says with a smile. "I've been a General's wife way too long."

"Be that as it may, love," Paul Cresta says, "All the same I'd feel better if you went with Holly."

"As you wish, General, sir," Emilia says playfully as she and Holly O'Dair climb back into the carry-all. O'Dair, Cresta and Howard watch as the two women drive off, then the trio slowly turns toward the Hall of Justice.

"It's ironic," Cresta says as they enter the building.

"What's that, General?" Taylor Howard asks.

"I spent a good portion of my military career trying to put ten kilos of shit into a five kilo bag," Cresta explains, "and now that I'm a Relief District Governor, I'm being asked to put five kilos of shit in a ten kilo bag - only now I'm supposed to pretend that it's actually ten kilos."

Neither Lucas O'Dair or Colonel Taylor Howard had anything to say after that.

**THE CAPITOL, PAN AMERICA - NEW YEAR'S EVE, YEAR 2 A.I.**

Melody Temple-Smith shivers slightly as she stands on the back patio of the house that she shares with her husband, Commander Charles Smith, and their son, Marcellus, now a busy toddler. Inside the house a muted New Year's Eve - observance, it really couldn't be called a celebration or party - was going on.

It had been storming all week, dumping almost two meters of fresh snow on the Capitol and the surrounding area. But tonight, the sky was crystal clear, the stars glittering like diamonds against an ink-black sky.

Melody's breath hangs in white clouds around her head as she stares up into the night sky.  _This is how I met Charles. At a party. Both of us staring up into the night sky, naming the stars. A lifetime ago. Three years ago._

Melody doesn't turn around when she hears the sliding glass door open behind her, but smiles slightly when she hears her husband's voice.

"Told you we'd find her out here," Charles says.

"Crazy girl," Susanna Snow says, "she'll freeze to death out here."

"I'm cold," Melody says with a smile, "not deaf."

"I didn't think you were, my love," Charles says, sliding his arm around her waist and quickly kissing her.

"Marcellus went back to sleep," Susanna says. "All he wanted was a cup of water."

"Thanks, Susanna," Melody says. "And Julian?"

"Been asleep for hours," Susanna says. "Which is what we should all be doing. The first duly elected Congress of Pan America is due to arrive tomorrow to be sworn in, along with our very first duly elected President."

"I bet Trinket's beside himself," Melody says with a chuckle.

"He should be," Charles says. "He's the first President out of the last five to leave office by walking out under his own power, rather than being carried - oh, shit. I'm sorry, Susanna."

"Forget it," Susanna says brusquely. "And you're right. Trinket's lucky. Besides that, he's still a member of the Enclave Triumvirate. Harley Baxter has no clue what's in store for him." Harley Baxter, the President-elect, had been serving as Governor of Relief District Six until the national elections in November. He is the first elected president in North America since Janice York.

"That reminds me," Charles says, deftly changing the subject. He pulls a coin out of his pocket and flips it to Susanna. "Here. I thought you might like this."

Susanna catches the coin and examines it. The reverse featured a stylized eagle surrounded by a pair of olive branches, clutching four arrows in each talon, with the word "PANEM" arcing over the eagle's wings. The obverse featured a stamped image of Julius Caesar Phillips with the numeral "5" stamped below his image.

"Five?" Susanna asks.

"Five Sesterces," Charles explains. "Janice York is on the One Sesterce piece."

"He'll be remembered," Susanna whispers.

"Of course he will," Charles says. "He was dynamic, charismatic, and energetic. Of course, maybe not in the George Washington sense...but he won't be forgotten."

"Will you have a chance to spend any time with your brother-in-law while he's here, Susanna?" Melody asks, deftly changing the subject - again.

"I hope so," Susanna replies, slipping the coin into a pocket on her sweater. "Michael Everdeen was never one to stay out of politics. It was only natural that he run for Relief District Representative."

"So do we still call him 'Senator?'" Melody asks with a smile.

" _You_  can," Susanna replies. "To me, he's always been just plain 'Mike.'"

"What do you all say we head back inside?" Charles says.

"Good idea," Susanna says, shivering. Charles slides the door open and steps aside as Susanna enters. "Coming, dear?" He asks Melody.

Melody glances up one last time at the constellation of Orion, the Hunter, blazing across the winter sky.  _You haven't changed,_  she says to herself.  _But we all have. I just hope and pray that the worst is behind us now. This nation, whether you call it Pan America, or, as more and more are doing, simply Panem,_ must  _survive. We're all that's left in the whole world._

Melody turns and walks back into the house as soft cries of "Happy New Year" fill the air.  _Shiva took its best shot at us, and we're still here. And we're here to stay!_

No one knows for sure what the future will bring - but one thing's for certain. It has to be better than the past.

**THE END**


End file.
